


A Beetlejuice & Lydia Valentine.

by RT Fice (RT_Fice)



Series: A Beetlejuice Valentine. [4]
Category: Beetlejuice (1988), Beetlejuice (TV 1989), Beetlejuice - All Media Types
Genre: Angst with a Happy Ending, Broken Hearts, F/M, Friendship/Love, Humor, Misunderstandings, Revenge, Scheming, Sexual Humor
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-11-17
Updated: 2019-02-14
Packaged: 2019-08-23 22:32:05
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 14
Words: 41,391
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16627655
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/RT_Fice/pseuds/RT%20Fice
Summary: Lydia's Spring Break job at Mobybucks Coffee Shop in Peaceful Pines is depriving her of sleep, sanity, and time with Beetlejuice.  Add to this the return of a now rich and famous nemesis. Lydia is determined to be an independent young woman, but her last nerve is about to snap.  Beetlejuice is determined to give Lydia the best Valentine's present she's ever received.  To do it, he'll have to break a lot of Neitherworld Rules and wreack a lot of havoc in the Living world. But the misunderstandings and consequences may be ruinous for the girl and ghost's relationship.Chapters will be added every Thursday.





	1. In Which Mobybucks Bears No Resemblance Whatsoever to A Real Multinational Corporation.

**Author's Note:**

> This continues my story series which begins with "Coming of Age" and "Flashback." I recommend reading those before reading this, or a lot of it may not make sense.
> 
> This is set in the Cartoonverse, but there’s a small crossover from the movie. As with my other Cartoonverse stories, my version of Beetlejuice is taken from the first season, when he was potentially dangerous, and acted like a poltergeist.
> 
> Some of Chapter One will be familiar to those who've read "Coming of Age: The Alternate, Explicit Ending." Since there are those who prefer to skip sexually explicit material, and therefore won't have read that story, I retell some of the material from that here, so those readers will have the full backstory. This is primarily Humor and Friendship/Love, so I’ve restrained my descriptive words of the sexual scenes to a Teen and Up level.
> 
> For the sake of fiction, I’ve fudged a bit concerning when Sarah Lawrence College might have break, and for how long. I assume they’ll forgive me.
> 
> The Dolce & Gabbana wallet really exists, I'm sorry to say.
> 
> The Mobybucks scenes are based on actual experiences I had working for a Multinational Corporate Coffee Chain Who Will Not Be Named at an extremely busy tourist location, which will not be named. My shift started at 4:45 AM, and I Clopened all the time. Lydia's symptoms of sleep deprivation are taken directly from my own. And what happens to the coffee shop manager, well... I don't fool myself by calling what I write Art, but to quote Lydia, "My revenge will be artistic, not personal." Insert evil Smiley Face here.

“I want a Vente Cinnamon Dolce Latte—“

 _Oh god, which cup’s Vente?_ _The medium size! Why can’t they just call it “medium?”_ Lydia grabbed the paper cup. She scrawled instructions on it and started to hand it to Portia at the steamer.

“—with an extra shot—“

“Oh.” Lydia grabbed the cup back from Portia, who sighed.

“—and two pumps of hazelnut—are you getting this?”

“Yes, ma’am.” Lydia scratched out the previous instructions and rewrote new ones.

“—and I want it extra hot, with light whip, and nutmeg sprinkles.”

“And stand on your left foot while whistlin’ Dixie while you make it,” Portia muttered to Lydia, and winked at her from behind the two dreadlocks which hung across her face.

Lydia pinched her lips together to keep from laughing. In an attempt to do “excellent Customer Service by making small talk which compliments the customer,” as the Mobybucks Employee Guide instructed, Lydia remarked to the frighteningly thin woman with the obnoxiously large necklace and rings, “That’s an interesting wallet.”

“Of course it is,” said the woman, unimpressed. “It was five hundred dollars. It’s Dolce & Gabbana, brown nylon and white pony fur.”

Lydia’s smile dropped. “Pony fur?”

“Are you deaf?”

“Your wallet is made out of _pony fur?”_

“ _So_?”

“Oo, girl, _don’t_ start,” whispered Portia.

Lydia took a deep breath. “That’ll be $5.25.”

“What?” The frighteningly thin woman with the obnoxiously large necklace and rings looked at Lydia as if the young woman had attempted to reach into her purse and snatch her furry wallet. “That can’t be correct!”

“Well, ma’am,” Lydia said, “the standard Vente Cinnamon Dolce Latte is $3.75. You added an extra shot of espresso, and two pumps of hazelnut, which are an additional $1.50. With tax, that makes your total $5.25.”

“That can’t be right! For a cup of coffee?”

 _You’ll spend $500 on a dead pony wallet,_ thought Lydia, _but you complain about a five dollar coffee?_

“Is there a problem?” said a high, scratchy male voice behind Lydia.

 _Karl._ Lydia managed not to sigh in exasperation.

“Is this young lady new?” yapped the woman. “I’m _sure_ she doesn’t know what she’s doing. Look at my total!”

“Yeah, she’s new.” Karl’s long, sunken-cheeked, tallow-colored face, brown crew cut and dead mouse mustache jerked past Lydia and eyed the cash register’s screen. Lydia stepped back; Karl consistently ignored how he violated other people’s personal space. “Vente…extra shot..um…uh..”

 _I know you’re dying to find a mistake,_ thought Lydia irritably, _but you won’t find one_.

Karl snapped upright like one of those novelty toys with a long neck, which dips up and down into a cup of water. His cracked voice reported, “The total’s right, ma’am. But just today, just for you, we’ll take off twenty-five percent for your trouble.”

 _For_ _ **her**_ _trouble?_ Lydia thought, indignant.

“Do it, Deetz.” To the woman with the brassy copper hair, Karl simpered, “You come and see us again soon.”

“Well, I just might do that.” The woman threw her American Express down on the counter and grinned at the manager.

“Well, we’re the _only_ Mobybucks in Peaceful Pines, so if you want our coffee, you’ll _have_ to!”

The manager and the woman tittered as if they were now pals forever. Lydia swallowed her nausea and, after swiping the card, handed it to the woman. “Thank you.”

“Now _that’s_ customer service.” The woman secured her card in her skinny, dead-horse wallet with a loud _click_. She glared at Lydia. “You should learn from him.”

“But…” Knowing better, Lydia shut her mouth. The woman walked over to the pick-up area and grabbed her coffee from the black woman’s hand, without looking at her or saying thank you.

“Deetz!” snapped Karl. “You’ve got a line!”

 _Of course I’ve got a line! You made people wait while you sucked up to that stupid—_ “If you help on register two, we can clear this line fast.”

Karl stood far too close, so close Lydia could see a freckle on his neck above the collar of his uniform black polo shirt. “Are you telling me my job?”

“I’m making a suggestion.” Lydia stepped back and looked up at him, firmly.

She could tell he didn’t like that. “Do your job, and do it _right_ , and the line will clear just fine. Don’t try to help her, Portia.”

“Thanks to the fact you’re too damn cheap to hire another person, I’m gonna be too busy making these drinks to help anyone but my own self,” growled the barista.

Karl turned, his rat-nose poised as if he were preparing to bite his other employee. Portia turned her large self sideways, leaned an elbow on the bar, stuck her rainbow-colored fingernails on her sizeable hip, and glared through her two loose dreads at him, one eyebrow raised in challenge.

“Move that line, Deetz!” Karl retreated into the back room.

*~~~*~~~*

“It’s February! Are you crazy with that bike? I’m giving you a ride home.” Portia unlocked her car. “Your bike can fit in the back just fine.”

“Really, thanks, it’s not that far.” Lydia removed the chain that secured her bike to the Mondo Mall’s bike rack. “I warm up quickly. It’s only two miles.” Lydia was ignoring the ache in her arms and shoulders, the heaviness of her eyelids, and the tinge of a headache.

“You’re exhausted, and it’s eleven P.M.” The large, black woman scowled. “I know you’ve taken Self Defense classes, but if some drunken asshat drives up to you with a gun—“

Lydia giggled loudly, which, she realized, she’d not have done if she weren’t so wrecked. “Remember, you’re in Peaceful Pines.”

“Girl! _How_ could I forget? I remember it every minute of every day. If jobs weren’t so damn scarce, I’d still be in Michigan and never have _heard_ of this place. Now, will you listen to an older, wiser woman, and not take an unnecessary risk?”

“I like night riding.” Lydia got on her bike, the chain across her chest like a bandolier. She strapped on her helmet and turned on its light. “It gives me time to decompress from work before I get home, and it’s good exercise.”

“All right, all right. But my offer’s always open. I just don’t want to turn on the radio tomorrow morning and hear something bad happened to you. You got some pepper spray?”

“Actually, I do.” Lydia pulled out her key ring to show her coworker the small Mace attached. She fumbled, and the ring fell to the asphalt.

“Didn’t I say you’re too darn groggy to be out by yourself?” Portia squatted and picked up the key ring. “You’ve been working since noon, that’s eleven hours. Just because Nathan was a No Call, No Show, doesn’t give Karl the right to make you cover his shift as well as yours—“ The woman stopped. She squinted at a metal tag on the ring. It had a cobalt blue background with silver stars in the shape of a constellation, with one star colored red. “What the hey is a ‘Betelgeuse?’” She pronounced it _bay-tell-goose._

Lydia was glad the parking lot’s cold white lights drained all color from a person’s face, so that the woman couldn’t tell she was blushing. “I got it from the Smithsonian Air and Space Museum gift shop.” _Years ago, when I was a kid. Because it was a way of carrying my best friend’s name around with me._

“Didn’t know you liked astronomy. How you supposed to say it?”

“Beetlejuice, actually.”

“It’s what?”

Tired, and not thinking clearly, Lydia explained, “Beetlejuice, it’s actually pronounced Beetlejuice. It’s a star, in the Orion constellation. It’s a red supergiant.”

“Really, now? My, my. Learn something new every day. Which is _why_ ,” Portia said emphatically, as she gave Lydia the key ring, “you gotta stop taking chances so you can live to be old and cranky and wily as a fox, like me. Why are you even working? I’d figure your folks can afford your tuition, living in that big house on the hill.”

“I _want_ to work.”

“OK. None of my beeswax. See you tomorrow.”

Portia started her car, stuck her hand out the window to wave at Lydia, and drove away.

Lydia sighed and pedaled across the Mondo Mall’s expanse of asphalt. The February night air was chilly, but she knew she’d warm up soon. Her ride would take a little over a half hour, and it was nearly all uphill.

………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………

Beetlejuice heard a loud, farting horn, blaring at something. He peered out the window of Lydia’s bedroom, which faced the village. Headlights flashed around a curve, then vanished as a huge shipping truck rattled out of town and onto the road to the Interstate.

The ghost cracked open the bedroom door. The Deetzs were in bed; he could just make out Delia’s snoring. The light in the downstairs foyer was on for Lydia.

He heard the _shush_ of tire tracks on gravel, then the garage door opening. He glanced at the Dracula digital clock on the nightstand.

_Eleven thirty-five? An’ it’s cold out! What th’ hell is she thinkin'?_

There was the sound of heavy steps on the front porch, then the rasp of the key in the lock. Beetlejuice grinned, and eagerly dove under the bedcovers. _Haha HA! Won’t she be surprised!_

……………………………………………………………………………………………………………………….

 _All I want_ , Lydia thought as she wearily thumped up the stairs, step by torturous step, _is to have a hot shower to get rid of the smell of coffee, and to pass out in my nice, big, soft, quiet bed. God, I may even skip the shower._

She opened her bedroom door and flicked the light switch. The light didn’t respond. _Power’s out? Can’t be; the foyer light was on._ She felt her way over to her bedside table and the small lamp on it, and then tugged at its pull-chain.

Instantly her bed became an explosion of carnival-loud neon lights. Red hearts pulsed next to blinking red words which spelled out _Hot 4 U!_ , _All Yours!,_ and _Baby's Big Bad Boy!_ Circus- bright white neon arrows pointed directly at Beetlejuice. He leaned back in a spotlight against three pillows, arms and grin wide. He was wearing nothing but a huge red bow tied around his groin.

“It’s _Love Time_!” crowed Beetlejuice.

Lydia blinked. “Oh. My. God.”

Beetlejuice’s face fell. “Whut?”

Lydia quickly covered her laughter with her hands. “Oh, god, I’m sorry, that wasn’t the reaction I meant, I’m not thinking at all, oh lord, give me a second to take this in.”

He glared at her expectantly.

Lydia tittered as if she were drunk. “Nice bow.”

Beetlejuice leaned back, his arms crossed behind his head, legs splayed, all the better to display the bow. “There’s a prize inside, just for _you_.”

Lydia giggled so hard she hiccupped.

Beetlejuice scowled. The neon signs vanished in a _whoof!_ of red smoke.

“I’m _*hic*_ sorry! It’s just _*hic*_ I’m so damn tired _*hic*_.”

Beetlejuice crossed his arms over his chest petulantly. “Then why’d ya call me?”

“I *hic* didn’t!”

Beetlejuice pointed at the bed, then pointed at himself, then gave her a _So how’d I get here, then?_ look with raised eyebrows.

“OH.” Vaguely, Lydia’s memory stirred. “It must have happened when Portia asked me about the key ring.”

“So ya _didn’t_ want me?” Beetlejuice scowled like a two year old who was offered candy, and then was told that no, he can’t have it after all. With a snap of his fingers, the bow became black boxer shorts covered with chili peppers. Across the fly were the words _Blazin’ Hot._ He was resolved to give her his worst sulk, but stopped when he saw Lydia’s right leg. “What th' hell happened?!”

Lydia glanced down. Her khakis were torn at the knee, and stained with blood.

Ghosts in the Neitherworld weren’t used to seeing living blood, since no one there had any. They found the sight of it alarming and disturbing. Beetlejuice especially had an aversion to it.

In a second Beetlejuice was off the bed and forcing Lydia to sit on its edge, while he turned on the bed stand lamp. He kneeled on the floor and examined the wound with evident aversion. “What’d ya do t' yerself?!”

“I just, there was this truck, at the intersection. I hit the brakes a little too hard, and fell over. No big deal.”

Beetlejuice recalled the loud truck horn. “No big deal?! You were almost flattened by a semi, an' it’s no big deal?!”

“It was my fault, I pulled out into the street without looking both ways.”

“Lyds, what’re ya doing ridin' yer bike at eleven at night? I thought this moron who hired ya said you’d be workin' th' mornin' shift?”

“He did. I was. But, a person quit, and my manager said I’d have to work nights as well as mornings until he hires someone else.” Groggy, because the bed felt so inviting, Lydia yawned. “That was three weeks ago.”

“Yeah, an’ I haven’t hardly heard or seen ya for three weeks! Yer workin’ nights _and_ mornin’s?”

“Yeah, I’m,” Lydia fell backward onto the bed and closed her heavy eyelids. “Closing the store, then opening the next morning.”

“So, ya get home at eleven thirty, an' ya have t' get up _when_?”

“Um…” The young woman yawned again, hugely. “Four am. T’ open th’ store at five.”

“Whaat?! An’ this happens _how_ many times a week?”

“I dunno…five or six. It’s called Clopening…closing, then opening…an’ I’m workin’ six days a week, till Karl hires somebody. Sometimes I have to work ten, twelve days in a row, ‘cause we’re short-staffed.“

“Are ya crazy?!”

“Umm…” Lydia rolled onto her side in a fetal position and mumbled, “Push my alarm button, will you...?”

Beetlejuice was about to protest, when he saw that she was asleep. He shot a look at the clock. It was midnight.

“She has to get up in _four_ hours! That asswipe manager! At this rate, Lyds is gonna get sick, or _killed_! An' fer what? Lousy minimum wage!”

In life and After, Beetlejuice was never thought of as tender. He was the Ghost With the Most, the Cool Ghoul. But, anyone who might see him alone with Lydia would have been astonished at how gently he pulled back the blanket and sheet, how he lifted her, and placed her with her head on a pillow. He carefully removed her silver stud skull and crossbones earrings and placed them on the nightstand, then took off her belt and shoes.

With a snap of his fingers, her clothes changed into her black, green and red plaid flannel pajamas. Her uniform appeared in a heap on her armchair.

Beetlejuice sat next to her on the bed, one elbow resting on a raised knee, his head leaning against his hand, gazing at the young woman sleeping on her side. Careful not to disturb her, he stroked her hair from her face. In the moonlight, her skin looked like fine alabaster.

_How did a conniving slob like me get so goddamn lucky?_

Beetlejuice hadn’t told Lydia about when he was alive, partly because he didn’t want to remember Before, and partly because he was afraid it might hurt her. He’d been with many women. He’d never been with the same one more than once. That was his choice. He’d been selfish in all areas but one: his sexual pride wanted to please the ladies, to give them the best time with a man they’d ever experience. A man putting a woman’s pleasure before his own was an anomaly back in B.J.’s day (and, he’d learned, it still was).

The ladies hadn’t wanted it known that they’d been with him, partly because they didn’t want to be labeled “loose” or “cheap,” and partly because B.J. was not an attractive man ( _they_ thought. He begged to differ.). To have sex before marriage would ruin your reputation and good marriage prospects, but having premarital sex with an ugly man was to be considered mentally unbalanced. Losing your reputation to Clark Gable or Errol Flynn would still get you labeled a “tart,” but a lucky, desirable tart. Everyone knowing you did it without a ring with a guy with a maniacal laugh, a receding hairline, and a pot belly would get you labeled “insane.”

Back then there were no birth control pills, spermicide, or vasectomies (B.J. would have had one if he could). “French Letters,” as condoms were called, were illegal in most states, and treatments for gonorrhea and V.D. weren’t pleasant or always effective. This all made women even more reluctant to go against social mores just for a fun roll in the hay. But many had with Beetlejuice, when he was alive: of all ages, single and married, of all races, ethnicities, shapes and sizes. A man with B.J.’s appetite wasn’t picky. Among themselves they whispered about him, at the beauty parlors, at the grocer's, at their coffee klatches. Yes, the man was nothing to look at, but, oh my, he could make you feel things you _never_ felt before.

Men didn’t know about B.J.’s sexual reputation, but their instincts bristled when he was around. Why was the ugly slob so damn smug, so confident, and so _cocky_? He swaggered around like he was Ruler of the Roost. Little did they suspect that he was the rooster the hens ran to, on the side.

B.J. had never wanted to become attached to anyone, maritally or emotionally. He’d never believed he was capable of it. Staring at Lydia’s moonlit face, his fingers petting her bangs off her luminous, soft forehead, Beetlejuice shook his own head. How had he learned to feel like this?

Maybe from her. Maybe it came from six years of friendship with a compassionate, smart kid, who saw good in others no one else did, no matter what their appearance or social status (her friendships with Bertha and Prudence attested to this). A kid who grew into a compassionate, smart young woman who wanted to be a photojournalist, so she could show the world the plights of the poor, the misfits, the ignored and forgotten, wishing to inspire the hope and compassion she herself had. Whether it was earthworms, bugs, or, well, ghosts, Lydia saw something worthwhile in all of them.

Beetlejuice didn’t understand it for a second. He laughed hardest when he was humiliating people the worst. Having the incredible powers he did, his already inflated ego felt superior to everyone. But somehow, over the years, Lydia had an influence on him. How else to explain the feelings he wished he didn’t have?

It wasn’t just lust. Sex with Lydia wasn’t _sex_. It was something more. Something better. Something wilder, more heady, more passionate, and more satisfying. Not only did he want to grab her every chance he got, but she alone was more than enough to satisfy his overly abundant horniness. Part of it might have been the thrill of being her dirty little secret; of being the experienced man with an inexperienced young woman, that Forbidden Fruit aspect; of having to snatch opportunity in secret and in heat, for fear of being caught…in the Living World, anyway. The Neitherworld, he thought with a grin, allowed them freedom that had its own ecstatic madness.

But that was only _part_. There was a four-letter word the ghost avoided in relation to what he felt, because it was unknown territory, and he had no map. If he ventured into it, he'd be lost.

Beetlejuice looked at the calendar on Lydia’s wall, just legible in the moonlight. It was February 7th. Valentine’s Day was coming up. He and Lydia had always given each other joke gifts for Valentine’s; he’d give her a box of chocolate covered roaches, she’d give him clean socks. But this year…this year he didn’t feel comfortable giving her something laughable.

 _Crap,_ thought Beetlejuice, his brow knotting as he looked at Lydia, _what th’ hell’s happened t' me?_

“Hey. _Hey_.” A voice, _his_ voice, emanated from his boxers.

Beetlejuice glowered at the rise. “Keep it down.”

“I thought she _wanted_ me out? She called!” Beetlejuice’s favorite anatomical part pushed against the boxers’ fly.

Beetlejuice whispered fiercely, “She’s _sleepin’_.”

“So? Wake her up! We haven’t touched her in _weeks_ , not since she got home for break, not since she took that rotten job—“

“Stuff it already, ya selfish prick.”

“I _want_ to,” whined his erection, “but you won’t _let_ me!”

“Hey.” It was Beetlejuice’s right hand. “Need a hand?”

“If he’s not gonna wake her up,” said the prominence, “why th’ hell not? We fit together real well.”

“Don’t encourage him!” Beetlejuice barked at his hand.

“Yeah, why th’ hell not?” it replied. “It beats picking your nose or scratching your butt. Let off some pressure, know whut I mean? You’re not gonna get any sleep if you don’t.”

“Yeah,” urged his erection, “sleeping next to _her_. I mean, lookit those hips…”

Beetlejuice was.

“Think of those soft, round, firm—“

“Shaddap!” whimpered the ghost, weakening.

“Remember what it’s like to hump—“

“Alright, _alright!”_ Submitting, not at all unwillingly, Beetlejuice yanked down his boxers. “If it’ll make _you_ happy!”

……………………………………………………………………………………………

_Beep beep beep beep beep beep beep—_

Lydia’s hand smacked down on the alarm button.

Disorientated, she wondered what the heavy object was across her waist. Struggling to consciousness, she realized it was Beetlejuice’s left arm. He lay pressed against her, his face in her hair, his potbelly fitted into the small of her back.

Lydia didn’t remember falling asleep. She didn’t remember a lot about the previous night, except the desperate need to get some rest.

She squinted at the clock. _Four a.m. Not like I’ve_ _ **gotten**_ _much rest._

She didn’t want to get up. Lying next to her lover was warm (though he was dead), and safe, and comfortable. Reluctantly, gently, Lydia slid out from under his arm. He yawned, his green tongue lolling, and fell onto his back. The room was warm –Delia had demanded that the house be fitted with an industrial strength heating system against the Connecticut winters—and the blanket had been thrown off both of them.

Under tired eyelids, Lydia gazed at the ghost. It seemed so strange, calling him a ghost, even if that was the case. His solidity was very unghostlike. Lydia couldn’t help grinning at Beetlejuice’s belly. God, it was sexy.

 _Why?_ Lydia remembered gazing down at Chad’s flat, rippling-muscled stomach in the hotel room, similarly uncovered as he slept, and thinking, _What’s wrong with me that don’t find him sexy? Or even handsome?_ It was the universal opinion among Sarah Lawrence students that Chad Lowell was Hot, capital H. His body was trim and taut. His hair was naturally golden and thick, and his teeth unnaturally even and white. Girls sighed after him, and hissed with jealousy whenever Lydia was seen with him in public.

Lydia hadn’t been flattered when Chad first started complimenting her. She’d figured he felt it was his duty to pay attention to the daughter of the people his parents wanted to impress. After a week, they were officially dating. She didn’t really know how it’d happened. He asked her out to movies, restaurants, cafes. Lydia had confessed to herself that she was curious. No guy had ever expressed an interest in her as a girl before.

Though, by that time, she’d wished Beetlejuice would.

That was the time when her hormones and her reason were sumo-wrestling. Lydia wanted _more_ with Beetlejuice. What that exactly meant, what it entailed, wasn’t clear to her. Lydia was not one for romance novels or movies; she didn’t dream of a Prince sweeping her off to eternal bliss, or Happily Ever After. While her body was experiencing new, undeniable, exciting cravings, she was, she had to admit, terrified of them.

When she was sixteen, Lydia had confessed her curiosity to Bertha. Much to Lydia’s surprise, and alarm, Bertha had an impressive amount of porn websites bookmarked on her laptop, and she was eager to show them off to her friend, whenever Bertha’s parents were out of the house. Lydia couldn’t decide what was more unnerving, the emotionless, harsh, often cruel actions of the “performers,” or Bertha’s fandom of it.

 _It’s so…cold. So functional_ , thought Lydia, overwhelmed after a half hour of viewing on Bertha’s computer. _Is_ _ **that**_ _what sex is like? Just…doing it? The women looked like they were on drugs, and the men looked like they didn’t care who or what they were with. I know it’s not real situations, and the people are doing it because they’re being paid, but…is_ _ **that**_ _what I have to look forward to?_

Lydia was _not_ aroused.

The turning point, for her, had been one evening, when she and Beetlejuice were in her room, sharing some puke-corn (it wasn't what she'd feared it'd be, and was actually pretty good).  He was bragging about haunting a tourist who'd annoyed him in the graveyard, when something in Lydia shifted like a tectonic plate.

He’d paused. “Lyds? Whatcha blushin’ for?”

 _Oh god,_ Lydia had thought, looking away and stuffing her mouth with puke-corn, _I want to kiss him. Not the kind of goodbye peck I’ve given him, or Thank You peck. I want to_ _ **kiss**_ _him._

Lydia hadn’t felt that way when Chad had taken her for the first of their long drives. He’d parked overlooking a river. “You’re one hell of a mystery woman, Deetz,” he’d said. Later Lydia concluded that he thought he was smooth. His arm was across the back of her seat; he’d undone their seat belts. In the sickly yellow light of the street lamp, Lydia experimentally glanced at his crotch.

Nothing. She’d felt nothing.

 _OK,_ she’d considered, _maybe it’s just because I’ve known Beetlejuice for years, and Chad for two weeks. But Chad’s handsome. I guess. And he’s paying attention to me. I should be feeling_ _ **something**_.

Chad suddenly leaned in and kissed her. Startled, Lydia’s head had jerked back, and her lips had involuntarily parted. Apparently seeing this as an invitation, Chad had thrust his tongue in her mouth.

“Eew!” Lydia pushed him away. Chad looked unbelieving. “Could you _ask_ at least?”

“Christ, Deetz, you’re out with me, here. That’s asking!”

“No, it’s not. It’s just…being with you. Hanging out.”

“Christ.” Chad had slumped back in his seat. “You _are_ a virgin, _aren’t_ you?”

“So what if I am?” Lydia had crossed her arms over her chest. “All the more reason to _slow down_.”

“Okay, okay. Crapatola. Let’s go get something to eat.”

Something strange had happened to Lydia after that date. Chad’s attention had made her angry about Beetlejuice’s complete lack of attention. Why couldn’t the ghost sense what she was feeling? Why hadn’t he noticed that she’d changed? The more she thought about it, the more frustrated and hurt Lydia felt. In response, she actively flirted with Chad. She had no idea _how_ to flirt, but she made it clear to the puzzled young man that long drives that lead to kisses were now welcome.

Late in their third week of dating, the realization that she would be leaving Peaceful Pines for college in four months, and that she’d be away from Beetlejuice, loomed ominously over Lydia. An uncentered panic shook her. She wanted something solid to grab onto, to anchor herself to. So when, driving one night, Chad suggested, in a low and husky voice, that they park somewhere and “move to the back seat,” Lydia had blurted, “Okay."  She set her jaw and looked him commandingly in the eye, so he'd be certain she was granting consent.  "Yes.  Let's do that." 

Chad had beamed as if he’d won the lottery, and gunned the engine.

“Pharmacy first,” Lydia had stated, trying not to feel her pounding heart.

“What for?”

“You know what for.”

“Deetz, I’m clean, I swear.” Chad had grinned in a way that was evidently meant to melt any hesitation she had.

“I don’t care how ‘clean’ you are.” Lydia’s voice had shook as she said, “Condoms and spermicide, or take me back.”

When they’d arrived at the CVS, Chad looked at her with annoyance. “Well?”

“Excuse me,” said Lydia, “but _you’re_ going in for them.”

“The hell I am. They _know_ me in there.”

“I’m sure they do. Probably because you’ve bought those kinds of things before. Well, they don’t know _me_. And _I’m_ seventeen. I might not be able to legally buy them.”

“I have never had a girl give me so much trouble. Hope you’re worth it, Deetz.” Chad had gotten out of the car in a huff.

 _Worth it? How do I know if I’ll be ‘worth it?’…Beetlejuice obviously doesn’t think I’m…_ The young woman had gritted her teeth so hard the muscles in her jaw jumped. She was simultaneously angry, scared and numb.

They’d parked behind the tennis courts at Chad’s house. Lydia had refused to go anywhere public. The car interior was lit with watery moonlight. Lydia moved blankly to the back seat, while Chad was grabbing at her, helping her over the seat, as if he were on fire. His kisses were demanding and sloppy; he banged his front teeth against hers and didn’t seem to notice. His pants were unzipped and down his thighs before Lydia had even seated herself comfortably. His hands pushed at her rather than caressed, shoving her shirt over her breasts and her skirt over her hips. Lydia kept waiting for some surge of passion, to feel the disturbing urgency she did when she was close to Beetlejuice. She went through the motions, hoping to engage. She wanted to slow down, to look at him, to explore the strangeness of a male body. But Chad put all his weight on her, causing her head to thump on the arm of the back seat –he hadn’t noticed _that_ , either—and had his knee shoving her legs apart as his tongue all but choked her.

 _This is what happens in those movies_ , Lydia thought, closing her eyes and running her hands through Chad’s hair with all the sexual enthusiasm of kneading bread dough. _Why aren’t I enjoying it the way the women in those movies do?_

Without a whisper of her name, without asking her how she was feeling, Chad went at her.

It hadn’t hurt the way Lydia had prepared herself for. She had been gifted a “toy,” selected by herself and purchased on Delia’s credit card (who had been uncharacteristically understanding), so the concept of what would happen wasn’t unknown to her. But Lydia had learned that she liked to have another area, the sensitive prominence, to be given attention before, and during, the Main Event. Because she wasn’t sufficiently aroused, Chad’s actions weren’t pleasant. Neither was her head bumping on the armrest, or the hard metal buckle of a seatbelt in her back. Chad wasn’t even looking at her. His hands gripped the armrest instead of touching her, and his eyes were clamped close.

In one minute, Chad was done. He had sat up between her legs. He had grinned at her while he’d pulled up his briefs and pants, zipped, and said, “Yeah, worth it. Me too, right?” He looked at his watch. “Christ. Better get you back.”

Chad had opened the car door, and thrown something into the grass (Lydia could guess what it was, and imagined with horror either a groundskeeper or Chad’s parents finding it—which maybe he _wanted_ them to). He’d gotten into the driver’s seat, and looked at her in the rearview mirror. “Pull yourself together, Deetz. Heh, you look kinda funny like that. Like you’re about to give birth.”

Numb, Lydia had straightened her clothes, feeling sticky from spermicide and Chad’s sweat, and nothing else. She’d uncomfortably climbed into the passenger seat. Chad had hummed while driving. He didn’t touch her. Didn’t pet her hair, say her name, or speak a human word. He drove Lydia to the condo the Deetzs had rented for the month. He kissed her, dry and quick. “I’ll call,” he said. Chad had then driven away.

All this Lydia remembered as she gazed at sleeping Beetlejuice.

“Oh no!” Snapping to awareness, she looked at the clock. Four thirty! She’d be late! And Karl would give her hell for it. Well, more hell than usual.

…………………………………………………………

The sound of Lydia frantically dressing woke him. Beetlejuice opened an eye. She was in a state of panic, pulling on her uniform polo shirt and stuffing it into her khakis with the torn knee. She bunched her hair and stabbed it with hair pins, then tugged on a black hairband.

Beetlejuice saw the clock. _Four thirty-five. AM! An’ she’s not even awake; look at her stumblin’ around in the dark. No way am I lettin’ her outta my sight._

Lydia quickly leaned over him. Beetlejuice shut his eye before she could notice he'd been watching. She gently kissed his lips, grabbed her small backpack, and hurried to the door.

The ghost vanished. Unknown to Lydia, her hair band turned from black to black-and-white striped.

 


	2. In Which Beetlejuice Is Reminded Why He Never Wanted a Real Job.

The clear sky was obsidian, flecked with stars, high and bright. Lydia’s breath came in white puffs as she pedaled.

Beetlejuice moved from possessing her hairband to her helmet, so he could see better. The village of Peaceful Pines was as quiet as its graveyard. All the windows were black. The loudest sounds were the crunch of the bike’s tires on cold, crisp asphalt, the rush of the bike chain, and Lydia’s breathing.

_I do_ _ **not**_ _like this_ , thought Beetlejuice. Sure, the village had a very low crime rate, but life experience had taught the ghost that no place, and no one, was immune from harm. With Lyds having a regular schedule, any sicko in the village would know when and where she was vulnerable. Or what if a car hit her? Or she skidded out and was knocked unconscious? No one would know she was there, possibly for hours.

_What kind of asshole expects his employee to go through this? Yeah, she’s got a car, an’ could drive. But drivin’ tired at four in the mornin’ is just as bad as ridin’ a bike._

As Lydia rushed past Maitland Hardware, Beetlejuice sensed other ghosts watching. Barbara and Adam. _Probably keepin’ an eye out fer Lyds. Useless idiots. If anythin’ happened to her, they couldn’t do squat about it, bein’ trapped in their store._ Beetlejuice had no respect or compassion for ghosts assigned to such limited haunting space.

The Mondo Mall was just on the inner edge of Beetlejuice’s own haunting territory, on the village side of the road that ran through town and joined the Interstate. Built in 1989, by mall standards it was small, but its size was probably what saved it from suffering economic collapse during the Great Recession. Three or four stores had shuttered, but the remaining two thirds received sufficient business from Peaceful Pines and the area. The Mondo Mall was the chief retail district and employer in the county.

Lydia clumsily chained her bike to the mall’s rack outside the main entrance. Shivering, she went in. As she removed her helmet, the ghost again possessed her hairband.

Mobybucks was located just inside the main door, so it could best serve caffeine addicts who wanted to get in and out quickly. The shop’s metal folding gate was open just enough for Lydia to slip in.

“Deetz!” Beetlejuice was startled by the high, sharp, cracking male voice. “You’re a half hour late!”

“Sorry, Karl.” Lydia greeted a girl with pigtails and eyes as big as if she injected caffeine directly into her bloodstream, and hurried into a small back room. She placed her coat, backpack, and helmet in the corner, next to an ice machine.

A tall, scrawny man, probably only a year or two older than Lydia, was there. “Want to explain, young lady?”

_Young lady?_ Beetlejuice shifted his eyes to the back of the hairband, the better to see the guy looming too damn close behind Lydia. _Who’s this jerkwas?_

“I was really tired this morning.” Lydia tied a dark green, knee-length apron around her waist. “I was distracted.”

“Edie got here on time.” The guy gestured like an overly-dramatic whooping crane to indicate the pig-tailed girl at the counter. “Edie lives farther from here than _you_ do.”

As Lydia squeezed past the guy, she mumbled under her breath, only loud enough for Beetlejuice to overhear, “Edie has the metabolism and brain of a hummingbird. I don’t think she sleeps.”

“I may have to write you up, Deetz.”

_What?_ Beetlejuice didn’t know what that meant, but his hatred of authority suspected it was some type of written reprimand or warning. He heated up. _He’s got a crewcut. Only anal morons with power issues have crewcuts._

“Karl, this is the first time I’ve been late in three weeks. I’ve always been fifteen minutes _early_. Can I just get to work, please?”

The man hovered by Lydia as she set up her cash register. “I don’t like your attitude. I’m beginning to believe that you’re not a team player.”

Silently, Beetlejuice snarled.

Lydia reached up and touched her hairband. _Has it gotten warmer? That’s not possible._

_Cool down, ‘Juice, cool down!_ The ghost held his breath and activated the little willpower he had. His temperature dropped.

“Ten minutes to opening! And buck up, Deetz! If I can smile, _you_ can.”

Lydia muttered, again so low only Beetlejuice heard, “I’ll smile only when and if I want to. _I_ don’t believe in being a phony.”

_Good fer you, babes!_ Beetlejuice gave her head a little squeeze.

Lydia’s hand jumped to the hairband. She shook her head. _So tired I’m imagining things._

The work required to set up even a small coffee shop was more than Beetlejuice expected. Pots of four kinds of coffee had to be brewed. Pastries, coffee cakes, cookies, bagels, and cupcakes had to be stocked in the covered display case. New wrapped sandwiches and fruit cups had to be rotated with older and expired ones. The open cooler had to be filled with bottles of juices, canned coffees and espressos, milk, and soda pop.

The espresso area was a confusing mess of machines. The ghost watched as Edie rapidly set out metal mugs, bottles of syrups and flavors, three blenders, and numerous jars of ingredients.

“It’s showtime!” Karl called, hauling back the metal gate.

_HEY! That’s_ _ **my**_ _line!_ Beetlejuice silently protested.

“That’s Beetlejuice’s line,” Lydia whispered.

Customers were waiting. Six people, all of whom looked impatient, tired, and unappreciative, hurried to the cash register and barked out orders.

Beetlejuice, who knew the recipes to a hundred cocktails, could never have kept up with the demanding mishmash the customers threw, rapid-fire, at Lydia. Half-cafs, double this and triple that, extra hot, extra foam, sprinkles, no sprinkles, no foam, gimme a bagel with cream cheese, no, forget the cream cheese, make it jam, no, forget the jam, make it light cream cheese, I want another cookie, this one’s hard, this one’s too soft, how many calories is this, you forgot my bag of beans, I want them ground, no, don’t grind them, too late, well, never mind, I want a refund.

Beetlejuice’s eyes crossed. _Lyds is doin’ this at five in the morning? I couldn’t do this at five in th’_ _ **afternoon.**_

“Thank you, come again, thank you, yes sir, thank you, have a nice day,” said Lydia, making sure she pressed the right order buttons and counted the proper amount of change. She felt light-headed. _Breakfast, I didn’t have breakfast. Or dinner yesterday. Wow. That was stupid._

The ghost sensed that Lydia was trembling ever so slightly. He also heard, through the noise, her stomach growl very softly. _Hey! She hasn’t eaten since yesterday! She’s gotta eat. When is she gonna get a break?_

Meanwhile, coffee machines were beeping, and microwaves were thrumming. Lydia had to turn from the register to empty coffee grounds, dump expired coffee batches and make new ones, restock the pastries and everything else, while Edie was happily humming making drinks, and Karl was in the back room.

This went on almost non-stop for four hours. Beetlejuice never imagined that there were so many coffee drinkers in the world. _What do they put in th’ stuff? Cocaine?_ Customers who only had to wait ten minutes acted as if they’d waited for hours. “Did you have to send to Brazil to get the beans?” one sarcastically snapped at Lydia.

“The beans come from Ethiopia,” Lydia replied tiredly.

At little before nine, the line abated. Lydia stepped from the register and said to Edie, “I’m going to take a break.”

“Why?” Edie grinned in a disturbingly perky way. “Are you tired? _I’m_ not tired.”

“I’m so happy for you,” said Lydia. Lydia went into the back room, where Karl was reading something on the Internet. She reached for her backpack, then stopped. _Damn! I forgot to pack a sandwich yesterday._ She sighed. “Karl, I’m going to buy a sandwich. How much is the employee discount again?”

“It’s not lunch time.” Karl didn’t look away from the screen. Beetlejuice squinted. He suspected that whatever Karl was looking for on the Victoria’s Secret website wasn’t work-related.

“I’ve been working four hours.” Lydia’s voice was tight. “I’m _legally_ entitled to a fifteen minute break.”

Karl minimized the screen, swiveled in his chair, and displayed a twisted smirk. “Guess you learn stuff like that from your Big City Daddy.”

Beetlejuice’s eyes shifted from yellow to red. Lydia’s narrowed.

“No, Karl, I looked it up all by my little old self. So what’s the discount?”

“Lydia! Customer!” Edie called cheerily.

“Customer,” said Karl, his lips pulling back to reveal little rat-teeth.

Realizing Edie wasn’t going to bother to help the customer, Lydia came to the front. “Hi,” she said, automatically. “How can I help---“

Lydia stiffened.

Beetlejuice’s eyes bugged. _Beetle shit. It_ _ **can’t**_ _be._

The skinny blonde wearing the latest in the Victoria’s Secret PINK collection – a powder pink baby doll tee with _Hard 2 Get_ in white _,_ and a low-riding pair of powder pink skinny sweatpants--- absently looked up from her smartphone. Her blue eyes widened. Her shiny lipsticked mouth opened with a shriek of laughter.

“Oh m’gawd!” The blonde turned to the group of two girls and three boys, all fit, tan, and with various shades of blondness, standing with her. “I do **not** beLIEVE it. Y’guys!” She turned again and snickered. “ _Lydia Deetz_!”

Lydia breathed in, steadily and deeply. “Claire Brewster.”

_Claire Brewster_ , Beetlejuice hissed to himself.

 


	3. In Which On a Claire Day You Can See Disaster.

Claire had grown. She was easily four inches taller than Lydia. Beetlejuice, who had come of age at a time when women were attractive if they had curves and roundness, thought Claire’s body looked as if she’d just been liberated from a concentration camp. Her breasts were unnaturally round and gravity-defying for a young woman that skinny, which lead the ghost to conclude that Claire had visited a Specialist since graduating Miss Shannon’s School for Girls. Her tan made her look as if she’d been roasted on a spit, which Beetlejuice thought was a great idea. Her fingernails were perfectly manicured within an inch of their lives, as were her toenails ( _Who th’ hell wears open-toe stacked pumps in February? Yeah, right: Claire Brewster.)_. The whiteness of her teeth made him flinch.

 _Maybe this is a nightmare,_ Lydia thought. _Or if I’m lucky, it’s a_ _ **good**_ _dream, and Claire will burst into flames and burn to a crisp right before my eyes._

“Like, what’re you doing _here_ , Lydia?” Amazingly, Claire had developed an even snottier and condescending tone since graduation. Beetlejuice wondered if she’d taken classes, or if it came naturally. “I’d heard a little rumorette that you had, like, been accepted to some Ivy League uni. Guess _that’s_ a lie, if you gotta, y’know, be a _cashier.”_

“Not that it’s any of your business,” said Lydia, making her voice as calm and unresponsive as possible, considering her lack of sleep and the abundance of irritation, “but I _am_ going to college.”

“So why’re you pumpin’ coffee?” Claire suddenly laughed. “Like, _I_ know. Your Daddy lost everything in the real estate collapse thingy. So his precious pumpkin has to pay her own way.”

Lydia felt her hairband grow warmer. The coffee shop’s lights flickered.

“I _choose_ to work,” said Lydia, gripping the edge of the counter behind her register. “Because work teaches about people and the world, and how to be responsible and take care of yourself.”

“Well, _my_ Daddy has made a _killin’_ in arms industries,” sniffed Claire, “and, like, _that’ll_ never collapse. Daddy says there’s always a war _somewhere_. And he would so totally never ever ever want _me_ to be a wage slave. Guess _some_ girls’ fathers _care_ about them.”

Somewhere, there was the sound of a teakettle screaming. Which was impossible, since the coffee shop didn’t have a teakettle. Everyone looked around, and it stopped.

 _I will not let her get to me. I will not lower myself to her scummy, mindless level._ “I’m so happy you’re enjoying wealth earned from the miseries of others,” said Lydia. _Oops._

“Whatever,” said Claire.

“Is there a problem?” Karl emerged from the backroom, his rat-nose sniffing eagerly for something to be wrong.

Claire beamed a blinding smile. Karl froze in place.

Claire spoke in a soft, flirty voice. “So, like, you must be the _manager_.”

Lydia saw Karl’s prominent Adam’s Apple jump. “Yeah.”

With a pout, Claire pointed at Lydia. “Dude, she’s so not taking my order.”

“You haven’t given me one,” said Lydia, through clenched teeth.

 _I’m gonna---I’ll---_ Beetlejuice threw himself from Lydia’s hairband and possessed the metal pot on the steamer. His rage made the milk inside it boil. Edie stared at the self-boiling milk, pulled it from the steamer, and blinked at it in dumb confusion.

“Deetz!” Karl’s voice cracked. He leaned over the counter toward Claire, and said with an ingratiating whine, “Whatever you want, little lady. Say, you wouldn’t be Claire Brewster, the _model_ , would you?”

“You’re so _clever!_ ” Claire bubbled. “I so absolutely _am_. I got representation with th’ IMG Agency right after graduation. I’m based in L.A. _and_ New York now. But I come back every now and then to visit Moms and Daddy-kins.”

The milk boiled over the pot, and instantly turned rancid. “Karl!” squeaked Edie. “The milk’s gone weird!”

Karl didn’t hear anything but Claire. “You got any brownies, big boy?” Claire purred. “I would, so, like, do _anything_ for a brownie.”

“Yeah, okay, wow, sure—“ Karl skittered into the back room.

Lydia couldn’t keep silent. “That was truly disgusting.”

“Hmph.” Claire scrolled her phone’s screen. “Says a girl who’s never had a boyfriend. That no guy would ever even _look_ at.” Claire squinted at Lydia. “I mean, you are _gay_ , aren't you? You've admitted that to yourself, haven't you? Not that there's anything, y'know, _wrong_ with it. You're just, like, _so_ in denial.” Over her shoulder she confided, loudly, to her entourage, “It explains _so_ much about, like, why she hated me tons in school. _Pining_.”

The entourage laughed.

“Karl!” Edie pointed frantically. “The milk’s turned rotten, and _green!_ ”

“Not that it matters what my orientation is, or if I have a boyfriend or not,” said Lydia, trying not to think of how long and pointy the steamer thermometer was, “but how would _you_ know if I did or didn't?”

Claire’s laugh sounded like a yap from Poopsie. “Just _look_ at you. When you get a chance, you might want to, like, _comb_ your hair. And put on some makeup. I hear Goth is back in style, but you just look, like, _dead.”_

“It might shock your tiny mind to consider,” said Lydia, “that’s looks aren’t everything.”

“Oh, cheeeRIST. What- _evah_. Look, Ly-dee- _ah,_ I want a Vente caramel macchiato, with swirled foam, and chocolate sprinkles.” Claire snapped out her American Express card. “Oh, and, yah, _I_ work, too. ‘Cause looks _do_ matter. And I make more in one hour than you do in _three months_.”

“It’s all about _money_ with you, isn’t it?” said Lydia, trying to clutch her slipping control.

“If you weren’t such a pathetic, like, _loser,_ you’d know that it’s the totally only thing that _does_ matter.”

The ghost had just enough sense left to know that if he exploded there and then, Lydia might be injured. As Edie dropped a steamer nozzle into a new pot of milk, Beetlejuice possessed the machine. His snarl of fury mixed with the loud screech of the steamer.

Karl tripped coming out of the back room, holding a brownie, which he’d buried in powdered sugar and put on a plate. He thrust it at Claire. “On the House, my compliments!”

“Awwww! You’re so, like, totally _sweet_.” Claire took the plate, touched a fingertip in the powdered sugar, and suggestively licked it. It covered her glossed lips. Her tongue ran across her lips even more suggestively. Karl’s eyes looked as if they were about to pop out, roll over to Claire’s manicured toes, and whimper like eager, obedient puppies.

Claire’s entourage snickered.

In a rush of icy air, the ghost threw himself into the mall’s fluorescent lights. They flickered violently. Shoppers halted and looked overhead, worried.

“Thank you _soooooo_ much.” Claire dropped the plate on the counter, kissed the tip of her forefinger, then poked Karl’s nose with it.

“Come back soon, anytime!” he panted.

“Maybe. Got to keep you guys in business, so poor Ly-dee-ah has a _job.”_ Claire waved her fingers at Lydia, who stood stone still, all her effort going into maintaining her composure.

Laughing, Claire and her entourage headed for the doors.

 _Oh no you don’t, you silicone bitch._ For a second, the inside and outside doors were simultaneously open. In that moment, Beetlejuice threw himself as a cold blast past the group. He vaulted into the overcast sky.

“God! D’ya feel that?” Claire, her mouth crammed with brownie, shivered and clutched her coffee to herself. “Get the car going, Brian!”

“Ya don’t know who yer messin’ with, ya waste of space!” The ghost vaporized, his elements joining with the clouds above the mall. They darkened. An arctic wind picked up and began to swirl. The six young people hurried for the Mercedes four aisles away.

“BriAN! It’s freezin’!” shrieked one of the girls, Savannah, as the wind whipped her hair free of its mousse and into her face. “Unlock the damn _door!_ ”

A green St. Elmo’s Fire surrounded the car. The boy rammed the key in the driver’s side door lock, and yelled, springing back. “It shocked me!”

The blackening clouds rippled back and forth, coiling over and under themselves. Thunder boomed. Flashes of lightning hissed inside the coils.

“Get it open, _get it open!”_ The icy wind tore at Claire’s hair. The lid ripped from her coffee cup, and she screamed as the hot coffee splashed her chest. As if with hands, the wind grabbed her sweatpants and yanked them down to her knees, revealing white underpants with the word PINK in pink across the rear. “AAA!”

“Me an’ Mother Nature are gonna _dance,”_ roared the ghost, thunder in the storm. With a violent crack, rain exploded down like bullets.

People ran screaming from the parking lot for the mall entrance, dropping bags, purses, shoes. Brian grabbed the key in the door’s lock. “It’s _frozen!”_ The rain was instantly melting into a shellac of ice.

A bolt of lightning speared one of the lot’s tall lampposts. The bulb burst, spraying shards of glass. Amidst thunder that sounded horribly like furious, insane laughter, the post creaked and fell towards Claire and The Entourage. Scrambling and screaming, they slipped across the frozen coating just as the metal pole snapped in a shower of blue and orange sparks. It smashed across the car’s windshield and crushed the hood.

“The mall, get inside the mall!” Brian shouted.

Claire and The Entourage tried to run, but the lot was a sheet of ice. A chill wind swooped down, shoving the six young people across the lot and into a ditch. The crowd watching from inside the mall’s door yelled in fright.

“What’s going on?” Lydia started to move from the counter.

“Deetz! Don’t you leave your post!” Karl came round the counter to see what was happening.

“My post? Karl, this isn’t the army! I just want to see—“

“You leave your register, and you’re fired!” Karl’s tone said that he meant it.

“All right! _Fine!” I should quit… no, I won’t let him make me, I will_ _ **not**_.

Grinning at Lydia, Edie scooted out of the coffee shop and joined Karl at the doors. Because of the crowd, even by leaning over the counter Lydia couldn’t see through the doors. All that was exposed was a strip of the glass above the people’s heads. In that space, she saw angry, undulating black clouds and blasts of lightning.

 _A thunderstorm? In February?_ she thought.

Claire, her pants caught around her knees, coffee all over her top, was yowling in the wind as she and The Entourage clawed their way out of the shallow ditch. “Over there!” Another boy, Alan, pointed at a huge gas station across the street, which serviced travelers and truckers. “Run over _there!_ ”

The ghost-storm ceased cackling. With alarm Beetlejuice saw his victims scrambling on hands and knees toward the road. The road was the outer perimeter of his haunting. _Oh no ya don’t!_

Hail the size of thimbles pelted down. The young people yelped and bawled, trying to simultaneously cover their heads and stand up. The wind tore them off their feet and threw them back down.

Windshields throughout the lot cracked and popped as the hail slammed and bounced. The watching crowd gasped and moaned.

“Yer not goin’ _anywhere_ ,” Beetlejuice the storm snarled viciously. The wind seized Claire and tumbled her…but tumbled her in the wrong direction. She slid into the road, which was remarkably, amazingly, free of wind and hail. “ _CRAP_ _!”_

Without a thought for her friends, Claire staggered upright and pulled up her pants. The heels and ankle straps of her shoes were torn, but she ran for the gas station, tripping as she went. Cursing with thunder, Beetlejuice was distracted enough to not notice Claire’s entourage crawl on their stomachs to the road, then dash to the sanctuary of the station.

With a howl of fury at their escape, but delight at Claire’s wrecked clothes, hair, nails and makeup, the ghost gave a few flourishes of lightning blasts to shopping carts, melting them into heaps of plastic and twisted metal. A last backhand of wind and hail shattered the Mall's glass doors. The crowd screamed and ran further inside.

Karl and Edie retreated, pale, with expressions of unbelieving shock. Lydia could now see through the exploded doors. The parking lot looked like wreckage from a war. A lamp had smashed a black car, and it’s interior electrical wires were sparking, which meant it wasn’t safe for anyone to go outside. She heard the scream of police sirens and the honk of fire trucks.

 _If I didn’t know better…_ Lydia shook her head. _No, not even Beetlejuice has_ _ **that**_ _much power._

Spent, Beetlejuice reformed himself into a single, icy waft of air. He floated through the broken doors and into the mall, where he possessed Lydia’s headband with a silent sigh of satisfied exhaustion.

The crowd was babbling. “Looks like you’ll all be here a while!” Karl said, moving among them. “Have some coffee, have a muffin!” He hurried into the shop, pulling out more pastries.

“Wow.” Edie was grinning from ear to ear. “Wow. I mean. Really. _Wow_.”

“Deetz!” said Karl. “The decaf expired fifteen minutes ago!”

“Sorry. I was a little _distracted_.”

“Haven’t I mentioned your tone, young---“ Karl stared at Lydia’s knee. “What happened to your uniform?”

 _Whut?_ Beetlejuice, who had almost fallen asleep, opened one yellow eye. _Him again?_

“I fell off my bike last night, and it was torn.”

“You’ve been working all this time while out of uniform?”

 _ **Whut?**_ Both Beetlejuice’s eyes snapped open.

“What?” Lydia knew she shouldn’t be surprised, but the stupidity of it was aggravating. “Karl, I didn’t get home till eleven thirty last night, and I had to be here at five this morning! I hardly had time to go buy a new pair.”

“Well, you’ve got time now.” Karl jabbed his huge knuckles into his bony hips, his sharp elbows out and behind him as if he were doing a chicken dance. “Take off your apron. You’re leaving early, to go get some trousers!”

 _HA! Good!_ thought Beetlejuice. _She gets outta here early!_

“The uniform shop is on the other side of town!” snapped Lydia. “In case you haven’t noticed,” she indicated the three fire trucks, three police cars, an ambulance, and two trucks from the city’s power company, “it’s not _safe_ to go outside. How exactly am I supposed to bike when the entire town is encased in ice?”

 _Oh,_ thought Beetlejuice. _Didn’t think of that._

“Call your Mom or Dad to come get you,” countered the manager.

“I’m not asking them to drive in _that_!”

“Well, hitch a ride with the police, or whatever,” sputtered Karl, “but I’m not having an employee working in a damaged uniform!”

“My apron covers the tear! _You_ didn’t even notice it till now!”

“Deetz, you want this job or not?”

 _Quit, quit,_ _ **quit**_ _!_ Beetlejuice thought at her.

Lydia gritted her teeth. “Yes. Yes, I do. Fine.” She untied her apron and handed it Karl.

“Noon tomorrow,” said the manager, grabbing the apron, “and _in uniform_.”

“I’ll be here.” Lydia marched stiffly into the back room, and grabbed her backpack and coat. “Have fun, Edie.”

“Sure. I always do. Oh.” Edie saw the crowd coming for the coffee shop, and her face drained with the realization that it was only she and Karl until the next shift in over two hours. “ _Oh_.”

Beetlejuice was chortling happily to himself as Lydia looked out the main entrance. Security and police were cordoning it off with yellow plastic tape, their boots crunching on the shattered glass.

A policeman carried in a crushed bicycle. “Does this belong to anyone here?”

Lydia covered her face and sighed.

 _Awww. No more bikin’ at four a.m._ Beetlejuice grinned to himself.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I posted photos of exactly how I picture grown Claire Brewster on my Beej & Lyds tumblr:  
> https://rtfics.tumblr.com/post/180618395556/chapter-3-of-a-beetlejuice-lydia-valentine-is


	4. In Which Unwelcome Guests are Expected.

“And _then_ ,” raged Lydia, pacing back and forth across her bedroom floor, “not only did I have to put up with ---oooOO!--- _Claire Brewster,_ but my bike was crushed by a falling lamppost! I had to call Father! It took forty-five minutes for him to get there, because of the slippery roads!”

“Whoa, babes,” said Beetlejuice with false innocence, lying on the bed, his arms behind his head and legs crossed at the knee, “you’ve had one _long_ day.” He added, hopefully, “So how’s about a lil' mini-vacation in th' Neitherworld, t' unwind?”

Lydia sighed miserably. “I can’t. Of all things to happen during the freak storm of the century, Dean Lowell and his wife are in town!”

“Whut?” _Chad’s parents?_

“They took up Dad’s invitation to see Peaceful Pines! Now, due to the storm, they’re trapped here until they get their car repaired. The hail broke the windows.”

_Shit. Maybe shoulda held back on the hail. Naaaw. It was worth it to see Claire get pummeled._ “But yer Dad can’t show them around th' village in this weather.”

“I know! So they’re coming _here!_ For dinner! And to stay the night!”

Beetlejuice grimaced and slapped his forehead.

“So I’ve got to get ready, while Dad picks them up at the gas station.” Lydia groaned and sat on the edge of the bed, her face in her hands. “First Claire Brewster, now _his_ parents. This day sucks so much it’s dry. Plus, I’m still so _tired_.” Eager to change the subject, Lydia asked, “So, what’d _you_ do all day?”

“Oh, nuthin’ much. Y’know, found ways t' amuse myself.”

Lydia grinned sleepily. “Hope no one got hurt.”

For a second Beetlejuice thought she knew, and then he realized that she was joking. He joked in return, with the truth. “There was only one ambulance.”

Lydia laughed. She fell back, her head landing in his lap. She closed her eyes. “I could so fall asleep like this.”

“Want me t' juice yer Dad’s car, so he can’t get th' Lowells?” the ghost asked, eagerly.

“Too late. Dad’s on his way there. If you juiced it now, Dad’d be trapped with _them_ , and Delia would have hysterics trying to figure out how to get them here. No,” Lydia moaned, “the suckage must continue.” She opened her eyes and saw him glowering to himself. “Could I see you? After they’ve all gone to bed?”

Beetlejuice’s heart raced happily. But he frowned. “Baby, ya need yer sleep.”

“Just…stop by. I mean, unless you don’t want to. I’d understand, you get bored—“

Beetlejuice pressed a red fingertip to her lips. “Knock it off. Ya wouldn’t feel insecure if ya weren’t dead on yer feet. So t' speak. _And_ if it wasn’t fer Claire.”

Lydia frowned. “She’s gorgeous and sexy. _You’d_ even think so.”

“No, I wouldn’t,” Beetlejuice sneered. “Take my word for it, baby.”

“Lydia!” Delia banged on the bedroom door. “Shower! Put on some makeup! And wear something _nice_. One of those outfits I bought you in New York!”

“Yes, Mother.” Wretchedly, Lydia got up. She took her bathrobe out of her dresser. Lydia looked at the ghost with a mixture of trepidation and resignation. “See you later?”

“As sure as I’m dead.”

“I’m beginning to wish _I_ were.” Sighing deeply, Lydia headed down the hall to the bathroom.

……………………………………………

“I _gotta_ get her t' quit!” It was Beetlejuice’s turn to pace the floor.

The Monster Across the Street, Jacques, and Ginger sat in the Roadhouse’s living room, watching Beetlejuice stomp back and forth.

“But, this job, it is terrible!” said the skeleton. “Why does she not quit herself of it already?”

“I dunno!” Beetlejuice threw his arms in a gesture of frustration. “Y’know Lyds! She’s got this character flaw, wants t' be responsible an’ honorable! Y’d think I’d have cured her of that by now!”

“But, she don’t hafta work, does she?” said Ginger. “Doesn’t she have scholarships an’ grants fer college?”

“An’ her folks’re payin’ th’ rest?” asked the Monster.

“It’s not about money!” said Beetlejuice. “She said havin’ a job teaches about people an' how th' world works an' independence! What is _wrong_ with her?!” He stood in the literal rut he’d paced in the floor. “Help me here! I need ideas!”

“I says she should jus’ punch that manager guy in the snoot an’ walk out!” bellowed the Monster. “Why’n consarnit don’t she do that?”

“’Because she needs this job on something’ called a ‘resume,’” said Beetlejuice. “When she goes lookin’ fer a new job this summer, she needs to list _this_ one, an' put a phone number so anyone wanting t' hire her can call her old boss an’ ask whether she worked there, an' if she was any good. If she quits, it looks bad.”

“I don’t think this boss guy’d give Lydia a good word even if she works her butt off,” said Ginger, angrily. “Sounds like he’s got in it for her. She might as well tell him to stick it, and get outta there!”

“That’s what _I_ say!” cried Beetlejuice. “You guys’ve gotta tell her that! She won’t listen t' _me_.”

Jacques, Ginger and the Monster glanced at each other. They’d finally gotten used to the new relationship between their living friend and the ghost. It hadn’t been easy. It was an odd thing, to have two friends who had just been friends turn into lovers. None of the three thought it was a good idea, for Lydia’s sake. But as long as Lydia was happy, they accepted the situation.

“I dunno how t' get her here so you can talk t' her,” said Beetlejuice. “She doesn’t have a spare moment anymore.” He rubbed his chin. “Maybe I can bring her tonight, after Chuck an' Ditz’ve gone t' bed.”

“Non. Let her rest. Beetlejuice, I am the serious deadly about this is not healthy.” Lydia brought Jacques health and fitness magazines from the Living World, so he was always knowledgeable about the latest studies. “With such the schedule unpredictable, Lydia cannot catch up energy. Already it sounds the lack of sleep affects her. It will disturb the memory and alertness, make her listless and cranky, and she is more prone to injury and sickness. Too little sleep, Lydia will not think clearly. She will have no judgment.”

“I’m sorta seein' that.“

“Then it’s gonna be all th’ harder t’ git her t’ see reason,” said the Monster, frowning. “I say we hog-tie her at th’ Roadhouse till she gits enough sleep!”

“I could spin her in a nice, comfy web,” Ginger volunteered. “Let her sleep it off then.”

“Non, non, it takes a long time for the repair to happen,” said Jacques. “One cannot recover in only a few days and nights. Quitting, it will make her feel terrible, but a smart, good person as our Lydia, she will find another job. Most important, Beetlejuice,” Jacques added, “be patient, if she says or does things which are not in her character. With too little sleep, she will act as if drunk. She will not even know what it is she does.”

……………………………………………….

In his bedroom, Beetlejuice looked in his mirror. Lydia wasn’t in her room. He passed through the portal, and pressed his ear to her bedroom door. It sounded as if Lydia and Delia were downstairs, probably waiting for Chuckie to get home with _Chad’s_ parents. The ghost itched with the desire to give Chaddie’s mumsy and daddsy the worst evening of their lives.

_How t’get Lyds to the Roadhouse so we can convince her to quit?_ Beetlejuice pondered.

_But, I don’t_ _ **have**_ _to._ The ghost grinned with realization. _If Bone-Head’s right, Lyds will get so tired she’ll mess up at work. That buzzcut jackass is already dyin’ for a reason to fire her. He’ll do it in a shot. She’ll finally get some sleep, an’ get back to payin’ attention to_ _ **me**_ _._

As he congratulated himself on his cunning plan, Beetlejuice heard a car coming up the drive. He was trying to decide what to possess where he could best spy without being detected, when a female voice came from behind him.

“I want a _word_ with you.”

Startled, Beetlejuice recognized the voice. He turned and looked at Lydia’s dresser. Propped on it was a small mirror, four inches wide by five inches high. Beetlejuice went over and peered at it.

Barbara Maitland scowled at him.

“Since when did Lyds want t' talk t' _you_?” Beetlejuice had dismissed without gratitude how Barbara and Adam helped concerning Charles Deetz threatening “Mr. Beetleman” in January.

“Since she’s needed a mature, sane woman’s opinion,” said Barbara. “But I want to talk to _you_. Over _here_ , where you won’t bother Lydia’s guests.”

Aching as Beetlejuice was to haunt Chad’s parents, he was intrigued, and irritated, by Barbara’s anger.

“Neutral territory,” he stated. “I’ll talk t' ya just outside yer porch.”

“Fine.”

In a literal flash, the ghost vanished from Lydia’s home and reappeared standing just in front of the bottom step of Maitland Hardware’s porch.

 


	5. In Which Things Get Heady.

“That was some freak storm, Charles!” said Dean Lowell. The tall, fit man with a wide chest, graying blond hair, and a square jaw took two bottles of wine, one red, one white, from a brown bag. “Every single one of the car windows was cracked! The windshield shattered!”

“And you said it was so _quiet_ here, Delia.” The tall, blonde woman with high cheekbones and a pointed chin handed her mink coat to Lydia’s stepmother.

“The news said all of Peaceful Pines was affected.” Dean Lowell took the small glass of sherry Charles offered him. “Lampposts snapped in half, windows blown out, and shopping carts melted by lightning!”

“Four people were sent to the hospital in Hartford for injuries.” Mrs. Lowell sounded exhilirated. “And now it’s unseasonably warm. It’s a fair 50 degrees. In February!”

Charles chuckled, and poured himself a sherry. “Well, you know what they say about the weather in Peaceful Pines. It’s like it’s controlled by a crazy guy with violent mood swings!”

 _I wonder,_ thought Lydia. She was uncomfortable in the garnet-colored sweater dress and matching high heels. Delia had demanded that she wear it, and Lydia had been too weary to protest.

“Hey, you’re going to get a glass for Lydia, aren’t you, Charles?” Dean Lowell winked at Lydia. She twitched.

Charles and Delia looked at each other. “Well, Tom,” said Charles, “the drinking age in Connecticut is twenty-one. Lydia’s seventeen—“

“Who pays attention to that kind of thing?” bellowed Tom Lowell, which made Lydia think of the Monster Across the Street. “We’ve let Chad have a drink at home now and then since he was sixteen!”

 _I know._ Lydia recalled the several bottles of liquor and mixer at the party Chad threw at his parents’ home, when they were away.

“That’s okay, Mr. Lowell,” said Lydia, trying to smile as if she weren’t ready to lie down on the couch and immediately fall asleep. "I'd rather not."

“Well, you’ll _have_ to have some of _this!_ ” Chad’s dad hefted one of the wine bottles. “’Barefoot Moscato! Distinguished Gold, 2009 Lodi International Wine Awards!”

“Mr. Lowell is quite the wine aficionado,” said his wife, as if this were a point of pride in the family.

“It’s a dessert wine, for after dinner!”

“Dessert after dinner.” Lydia smiled, tiredly. “What a concept.”

Tom shoved the bottle in Charles’ face. “A sweet wine with flavors of juicy peach and apricot. Hints of lemon and orange compliment a crisp, refreshing finish!”

“Well, golly,” said Charles, the bottle only an inch from his nose, “it says so right on the label.”

“You can’t say no to that, Miss Deetz!” Tom winked again.

Lydia resisted the urge to slug his winking eye. “But I don’t really like to…”

“Lydia.” Delia gave her stepdaughter a reprimanding look.

Lydia sighed. “I’ll be very happy to try it, Mr. Lowell. Thank you.”

“Tom, call me Tom! Why, we’re almost as close as family!”

 _In your stupid dreams,_ thought Lydia.

Bellowing about the damage to his sedan, the dean slapped an arm around Charles’ shoulder and they went into the living room.

Mrs. Lowell smiled down at Lydia. Her lipstick was an unnatural shade of peach, which clashed with her tan. “Chad misses you.”

 _No, he doesn’t. He just told you that, hoping that_ _ **I**_ _miss_ _ **him**_ _, so that he can have sex with me again. “_ I’m sure Chad has better things on his mind than me, Mrs. Lowell.”

“Lydia!” said Delia. “Don’t contradict a guest.”

“House tour, ladies!” roared Tom Lowell. “Come on!”

………………………………………………………………………………..

The night was unnaturally warm for February.

Barbara Maitland stepped out the front door, wearing a light sweater. “I suppose this,” she indicted the warmth, “is your doing, too?”

Beetlejuice stuck his hands in his pockets and grinned. “How’s death treatin' ya, Babs?”

“People were injured because of you!” she said. “You could have killed someone!”

“Naaaw, I’d never let that happen. Y’think I want more loser ghosts like you an' Adam around here?”

“You caused thousands of dollars in damage!”

“Whatcha complainin’ about? Bet it gave Maitland Hardware a lot of business. Old Bill must be knockin’ himself out keepin’ up with orders.  Ya better hope _he_ doesn't croak.  There's no one around t' replace him who has your oh so very high standards.”

“You just don’t think about anyone other than yourself, do you?”

“Aww, I get it.” Beetlejuice snickered. “Yer just upset because ya didn’t get a long, hot drink of ‘Juice before Lydia came along.”

“OH! You are SO—“ Looking for something to throw, and finding nothing at hand, Barbara yanked off a shoe and threw it at Beetlejuice’s head. He ducked, and it flew past him.

“HA!” Snatching it up, Beetlejuice waved it at her. “Come an' get it, Babs! Oops, ya can’t! It’s off th' porch!”

Flustered, Barbara said, “Give it to me!”

“Sure, sure. No hard feelings.” The ghost held it out to her. As she reached for it, he held it away. Barbara’s hand vanished, until she drew it back.

“Good thing a Sandworm didn’t snap off yer hand. Gotta watch those perimeters, Babs. Okay, here; you can have it.” He held it out again. “Now it’s in,” Barbara grabbed for it, and he pulled it out of reach, “now it’s out. In! Out! AHHa ha HA!”

“You insufferable _jerk!”_

Barbara came down to the bottom step, paused, and lunged to grab her shoe, just as Beetlejuice stepped aside. The entire upper half of her body vanished. She stumbled backward, reappearing, and sat down with a thump on the second to last step.

“Limits. Y’know _I_ hate ‘em.” With an air of superiority, Beetlejuice blithely tossed the shoe into Barbara’s lap.

“You haven’t changed.” She put on her shoe. “And that’s why I want to talk to you. About Lydia.”

Beetlejuice’s eyes narrowed. “What about her?”

Barbara stood up. “Do you care about her?”

“Care about Lyds?” Beetlejuice hesitated. He stuffed his hands in his pockets again, and, standing, crossed his feet at the ankle. “We’re best friends, ya _know_ that.”

“You’re more than that now. I _said,_ do you _care_ about her?”

“Define ‘care.’”

Barbara set her jaw. Her curly hair moved in the breeze. “That’s what I thought. You won’t say it. Which means even if you felt it, which I don’t believe for a second you’re capable of, you wouldn’t admit it. And that’s as bad as not feeling it, as far as a girl Lydia’s age is concerned.”

“What’re ya talkin’ about? Lyds is fine! Lyds is always fine.”

“You know very well she’s not fine! I’ve seen what she looks like going back and forth to work. She’s exhausted. She’s vulnerable. Are you taking advantage of her?”

“Like how?”

“You know what I mean, you pervert.”

“HEY. I am _not_ a pervert!”

“Are you seducing her when she can’t think clearly?”

“What’s between Lyds an’ me is none of yer business,” he barked defensively.

“It most certainly _is_ my business!” A rush of emotion came over Barbara. “Adam and I care about her as if she were our own daughter. We’re her self-appointed guardians. I never liked her hanging out with you, and now that she’s a woman, you’re the _last_ man I’d want her to be with.”

Beetlejuice thought of the small mirror in Lydia’s room. “You’ve been talkin’ with her? What have ya been sayin’?”

“Oh, don’t worry. She won’t hear a word against you, so I don’t try to say any. She’s too…” Quite obviously Barbara didn’t want to reveal what Lydia may have confided to her. “A girl her age, in her first sexual relationship, doesn’t have the experience to see the big picture. _She_ thinks that you actually _care_. When _I_ think you’re only taking advantage of a young woman you saw grow up, who trusts you, so you can have _sex_ with her, with no strings attached!”

Scales formed on the backs of Beetlejuice’s hands as he clenched his fists. “I may be a lousy, stinkin’ S.O.B., but this is Lydia we’re talkin’ about.”

“Exactly! The one woman in life, _and_ death, who’d be fooled into having feelings for _you._ And now that she’s home on break, tired out of her mind, I’ll just _bet_ you’re grabbing at her like the horny goat you are, not giving her any peace—“

Red smoke snorted from Beetlejuice’s nostrils. “Ya _don’t know_ _ **anything**_ about what I feel fer—“

“I know you can’t even be bothered to say you _care_ about her! A typical, arrested-development man!” Barbara came down to the very edge of the bottom step, and leaned forward as far as her haunting perimeter allowed. She added in a calm voice as she glared directly into Beetlejuice’s burning yellow eyes, “You know why I don’t try to convince Lydia to kick you to the curb? Because I know _exactly_ what’s going to happen. It’s inevitable.”

“Whudd’ya mean?”

“Lydia will go back to Sarah Lawrence, and wonder why you’ve never said that you care for her. That you _love_ her. She’ll realize that you’ve never said it because you _don’t_ love her. She’ll look around and see couples who _do_ care for and love one another, and who _show_ it. She’ll realize that she deserves that, too. “ Barbara smiled in a triumphant way that made Beetlejuice blink with unease. “She’ll find a nice, good, handsome, _living_ young man her age, who’s more than happy to tell her how he feels, and who’ll treat her as she should be treated. He’ll make her feel so good about herself that she’ll forget that you even exist.”

Beetlejuice swallowed.

“She may not fall in love then, but she’ll know that there’s more to the world than _you_ and Peaceful Pines. Lydia will find a great job as a photojournalist, and she’ll travel the world. Charles and Delia Deetz will happily move away from Peaceful Pines. Even if the real estate market improves, no one will want that huge mansion on a hill in a little Connecticut village. It will stand, empty. You won’t have anyone to haunt. You’ll bang around this village until you finally go back to the Neitherworld and _stay_ there. And on that day, Adam and I will throw a party.”

Beetlejuice felt cold, as he had when he was bleeding to death. “She’d never leave me like that. She’d never forget me.”

“Like a bad dream, ‘ _Juice_.”

“Ya got it wrong, Babs.” Beetlejuice straightened, regaining his cool, relaxed pose. “I _want_ Lydia t’ get a great career. I _want_ her t’ travel th’ world.”

“Maybe,” said Barbara. “I bet anything you want her to carry around a small mirror in her pocket, so she can still call you from the Neitherworld. But, notice that she hasn’t called you from Sarah Lawrence. Adam and I can only haunt this store; but you, you can go anywhere, if someone says your name three times. And she hasn’t done that from college.”  Her expression hardened with cruel delight.  " _Or_ , and this is a _real_ possibility, Peaceful Pines is as far as you're allowed to haunt. Maybe calling you from a mirror outside of the village won't work.  So Lydia will travel the world with no link to you except the memory that _you never loved her_."

Beetlejuice tried to think of a sharp retort. His mouth opened, but nothing came out.

The woman ghost’s voice shifted into a tone of reasonable suggestion. “Let her go. You had your life; you’ve got all of eternity to find ways to amuse yourself. This is her one and only life. Let it be happy and normal. Just go to the Neitherworld, and never see her again.”

“Yeah. Well.” Beetlejuice snorted and straightened his tie. “It’s been _fun_ visitin’. You go back to yer mundane Afterlife, an’ keep yer nose outta _mine_.”

With a snap of his fingers, the ghost vanished.

He reappeared, not in Lydia’s bedroom, or any part of the Deetz’s home. He stood outside the Roadhouse, on the edge of the ledge, gazing out across the expanse of the Neitherworld, and New Yuck City on the horizon. The Neitherworld sun was setting, casting the landscape in orange, lavender and purple. The breeze tousled the ghost’s yellow hair.

 _Babs is wrong,_ Beetlejuice thought, trying to ignore the constriction in his chest. _Babs is absolutely, completely wrong…………_

…………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………….

“Lydia? Lydia, dear!”

Lydia’s chin jerked up from her chest. She blinked slowly, trying to determine where she was, and whether it was her bed. Unfortunately, it was the dining table. Her dinner sat, barely touched, on the ceramic plate before her. Everyone else’s plate was more or less empty.

“That was an… _interesting_ meal, Delia.” Tom Lowell patted his lips with his linen napkin.

“It’s a bit difficult to get fresh ingredients out here,” said Delia. “I can only manage shopping excursions to Hartford twice a month, being as busy as I am with my art.”

“Your art. Yes.” Mrs. Lowell nervously glanced sideways at the lumps on pedestals in the living room, as if they were predatory and biding their time.

“I’m creating a new collection!” burbled Delia. “The _Light and Air Series!”_

They looked at the chunks of cement, plaster, and twisted steel, with rebar sticking out of them.

“They look positively…feral.” Mrs. Lowell coughed. “No, that wasn’t the word I meant.”

“I think the word you meant was,” said Lydia, “’crappy.’”

They stared at Lydia.

The young woman giggled. “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean that.”

“I should hope not,” said Delia.

“What I meant was… _really_ crappy.” Lydia bust a gut laughing.

Charles squeezed out a laugh. “Our Lydia! What a sense of humor!”

“Why don’t we take our desserts into the living room?” Shooting Lydia a hard, quizzical look, Delia got up and went into the kitchen.

Lydia sank into the soft, round chair in one of the living room’s corners, and yawned, widely. Mrs. Lowell sat on the long, zebra-patterned couch, and Charles made himself comfortable in his wingback armchair. Delia entered with a tray of little plates with tiny little cakes. Tom followed, brandishing the bottle of Moscato aloft as if it were a hunting trophy, his other hand holding five small Waterford crystal glasses, their stems stuck between his fingers.

“Dessert wine with the dessert!” He shoved a glass at each of them, including Lydia, and poured until they were full.

Lydia scrutinized hers. She said, “It looks like pee.”

They stared at her.

Lydia squinted at the wine in her glass. “Weak pee.”

“Ha ha!” Delia looked simultaneously amused and horrified. “Vulgar humor! It’s _the_ thing among teenagers these days!”

“When I pee it,” said Lydia, “it’ll be redundant.” She sipped. Her nose crinkled. “I don’t know what pee tastes like, but, if it had hints of lemon and orange citrus with a crisp, refreshing finish, it’d taste like _this_.”

“Soooooooo, Tom,” Charles interjected hurriedly, “how’s your son?”

“Speaking of pee.” Lydia chortled.

“He’s damn fine, damn fine. Dean’s List again this year!”

Lydia snorted. “There’s a shock.”

“Of course,” said Tom slowly, looking at Lydia slumping deeper into the round chair as she drank, “he’s on it strictly due to his own merits. Has nothing to do with being my son.”

“’Course not.” Lydia snorted louder. “What a thought.”

“Chad’s very studious,” said Mrs. Lowell, nibbling at her tiny cake.

“Yah. It’s amazing how he finds time, what with all the looong drives in the countryside.” Lydia pulled her legs up onto the chair and curled like a cat. “And th’ parties.”

“He’s got one heck of a social life, like I did when I was his age!” Dean Lowell downed his glass, and poured another. “Oh, the joys of youth!”

“He can’t wait to see you again, when you come back,” Mrs. Lowell told Lydia.

“Ooh, I just _bet_ he can’t.”

“He’s been pining. Yup,” said Tom. “Pining.”

“Umm hm.” Lydia swirled the wine in her glass, watching it with sleepy, half-closed eyes. “Bet he’s been _pining_ with Mellissa, and Jennifer, and Aiyasha, and Angela, and those twins from Iowa. But, no worries. Chad’s _clean_. At least until his next checkup.”

“Are you feeling well, dear?” asked Delia.

“I’m not feeling anything at all, Mother. Sort of…numbish. That’s probably what you feel all the time, isn’t it, Mrs. Lowell?”

“What?” Mrs. Lowell stammered.

“Have a _cake_ , pumpkin.” Charles held the tray out to his daughter.

“They’re petit fours, Father. Don’t worry, Dean and Mrs. Dead Mink Coat Lowell, Mother didn’t make these.” Lydia took two, and crammed one into her mouth. She continued, spilling crumbs, “The last time Mother tried to _bake_ anything, every fire truck in Peaceful Pines showed up.”

“Lydia,” said Delia, her face going as red as her hair.

“Some people use timers.” Lydia swallowed, then stuffed the other petit fours in her mouth. “Delia uses th’ smoke alarm.”

“That humor again!” Delia laughed like a sick hyena. “Didn’t I tell you?”

“So, that donation you were thinking of giving to the college,” began Dean Lowell to Charles, “I was thinking—“

“Oh,” said Lydia.

The adults stopped and looked at her with dread,

“I _do_ feel kinda something.” Lydia hiccupped. “Horny. Definitely horny.”

Mrs. Lowell spilled wine on her skirt. She mewed and dabbed at it with her napkin.

“Don’t worry, Mrs. Lowell. It’s not for your son. It’s for somebody so not like your son that you couldn’t _even begin_ to guess. Lemme just say, by comparison, Chad doesn’t _measure up_.”

Delia choked. Tom looked as if he had suddenly stopped breathing and forgotten how to start.

“D’you find potbellies sexy, Mrs. Lowell?” Lydia gave Dean Lowell the once-over with one eye shut. “No, guess not. Sorta like being with a department store mannequin, isn’t he?”

“I think maybe you’ve had enough, sweetheart.” Charles took the glass from Lydia.

“No no no. I’ve only had _one_. I don’t want t’be rude.” Lydia took the refilled glass from startled Tom Lowell’s hand, and had a large gulp. “It’s not a _bad_ pee drink.”

“Night-night, pumpkin!” Charles gently but firmly helped Lydia to her feet. He slid his arm under hers and half carried, half dragged her to the stairs.

“Say goodnight to our guests, dear!” said Delia, desperately.

“Nice t’see ya, Dean and Mrs.” Lydia’s yawn was gaping and epic. She tried to remember how her legs and feet worked.

Charles hurried Lydia up the stairs as well as he could.

………………………………………………………….

 _Thought I heard somthin’._ Beetlejuice clicked off the little TV balanced on his gut. He sat up in his coffin bed. He took off his blanket and stood in his beetle-design pajamas in front of his mirror.

Lydia was in bed, under her comforter.

_Sleepin’. Good! Just check t’see if everything’s OK._

The ghost slipped through the mirror and floated over to the large, four-post bed. Lydia lay on her side, her hands under her pillow, the blanket tucked around her. An expensive-looking dress was on her armchair, with matching shoes under it.

“Can’t handle her liquor, can she?” said a deep, loud voice downstairs.

Beetlejuice stood and opened the bedroom door a crack.

“It’s not something we encourage,” said Charles.

“Nonsense! She’s a college girl now! Why, when she pledges at a sorority—“

_Sorority? Are they talkin’ about Lydia? Who is that guy?_

“She hasn’t expressed any interest in that, Tom.”

“Nonsense! Sorority mixers are the best place to find future Misters! Why, that’s where Sandy and I met! Wasn’t it, Sandy?”

“Potbellies?” said a woman, as if she were trying to consider something she never had before.

“Not that we wouldn’t be pleased as punch if Lydia and Chad made it a permanent thing.” The man’s pushy voice was followed by the sound of a cork popping. “Try the red, Charles!”

 _Chad?_ Beetlejuice fumed. _His parents!_ He shoved his sleeves up to his elbows. _It’s show—_

“Beej?”

The ghost looked over his shoulder. Lydia’s bleary eyes could just be seen in the pale moonlight from the window, peering at him.

Beetlejuice carefully closed the door, and juiced the lock so the key couldn’t work. He went to the bed and leaned over Lydia. “Hey, babes.”

Lydia yawned and smiled. “Been havin’ fun?”

“Yeah. Sure.” Surreptitiously, Beetlejuice took the small mirror from the dresser, opened the bottom drawer, and stuck it inside one of Lydia’s thick sweaters. He hesitated, then punched the OFF button on Lydia’s alarm clock. He got up on the bed. “How’s about you?”

“I useta jus’ dislike his ‘rents.” Lydia’s voice sounded like feet dragging across a carpet. “Now I ‘ficially hate ‘em.”

A waft of the young woman’s breath stung the ghost’s nose. “Is that..?” _Naw. Lyd’s doesn’t drink._

Lydia was coherent enough to pick up on what he wanted to ask. “What kinda guy wants th’ under-drinkin’-age daughter of th’ guy he wants a big donation from to have wine? That’s th’ kinda guy he is. Guess can’t blame Chad too much for turnin’ out to be a jerk.”

“Ya drank? On top of bein’ up since four a.m.?!” Beetlejuice, a former bartender, was incensed. But revenge on Chad’s parents would have to wait. Haunting tonight might keep Lydia awake.

Lydia slid her arms around his neck. “Miss you. Miss you somthin’ awful.”

Beetlejuice tried not to stare hungrily at her sexily drowsy gaze, or her lips. “Feelin’s mutual.”

"Ya?  Tell me."  Her voice was seductively smoky.  " _Tell me_."

His voice dropped a register as he whispered, "I fuckin' miss ya.  _An' I miss fuckin' ya._ "

"Mmmm, that's what I wanna hear."  Lydia drew him down and kissed his neck. With one hand she pulled off her sheet and blanket.

“Oh, babes, y’shouldn’t—“ stammered the ghost.

Lydia unbuttoned his pajama top as her kisses progressed down his collar to his chest.

“Seriously, yer tired,” he objected half-heartedly.

“I want to see it,” Lydia whispered, undoing the last shirt button.

“HelLO!” There was an amazingly quick response behind his pajama bottom’s fly.

Lydia started. She looked at the firm rise.

“Hey, Lyds, _baby!_ ” it cried.

Lydia giggled. “Since when did it start talking?”

“Since I’ve been missing ya so damn much!” it answered. “Ya said ya wanta see me! Lemme out!”

Lydia covered her laugh with her hand.

“He’s got a mind of his own,” sighed Beetlejuice.

“What I wanted t’see,” said Lydia, pulling open his shirt, “is…”

Lydia didn’t finish. Her fingertips slipped over his stomach. Beetlejuice’s breathing came harder, as he waited to see what she would do.

Her fingers explored his belly-button, which he found to be a surprisingly sensual sensation. They moved outward from it, slowly. When they came to the small cut, they stopped.

Lydia shifted down the bed, until her face was under Beetlejuice’s gut as he stood on his hands and knees over her. She very gently touched the cut, which was only an inch wide. Of course, it had never healed and scarred over. He had been dead. It could never have healed.

Beetlejuice shivered. She’d never looked at it, never asked about or mentioned it, not since his Flashback. While his having come through that incident had made the ghost less in denial about what had caused his death, he avoided thinking about it.

 _It must have hurt more than anything I can imagine._ Lydia remembered the scene of his death, and shuddered. _How_ _ **horrible**_ _. Alone, so alone…_ As if to cast out the terribleness of what had caused it, Lydia kissed the wound which would never heal.

Beetlejuice made a startled, aroused sound. The rise behind his fly stood at full, rock-hard attention. Lydia was kissing all over his stomach. He groaned, and reached to yank down his waistband. Biting his lip, he stopped.

“No. Wait. Baby.” Almost choking on his thick, fast breaths, Beetlejuice maneuvered over Lydia and beside her.

“Wha’s wrong?” Lydia tried to sit up, but, exhausted as she was, she could only manage to move up onto a pillow.

“Yer wiped, beautiful. Yer not thinkin’ clearly.”

Lydia’s face dropped. “Don’t you want me?”

“ _Want_ ya? Babes, when _don’t_ I want ya?”

“What he said!” cried his erection. Beetlejuice smothered it with a pillow.

“Lyds, I would crawl over broken glass with sandworms biting my ass, just to kiss yer inner thigh,” he said, sincerely. “But, yer not yourself tonight. I want any time we get hot an’ heavy t' be somethin’ ya _remember_.”

Tears spilled down Lydia’s cheeks. “I’m thinkin’ clear, I…I’m tired, sure, but I know that I want you.”

“It’s eleven p.m. You’ve been awake for _nineteen hours_. An’ that after a crappy day at work, an' at home. Plus you’ve had a drink. Ya need t' be asleep.”

As she took hold of his shirt and slowly brought him to her, Lydia whispered, “Kiss me g’night.”

Beetlejuice ravenously locked his mouth with hers. Shaking, he reached for her crotch, but he jerked his hand back. When he came up for breath, he put his mouth to Lydia’s ear and whispered, “Go t’sleep, beautiful. C’mon. Think about how nice and soft the mattress is. So nice and soft…“

“Hey!” yelled his erection. Beetlejuice jabbed the pillow firmly between his legs.

“Feel the comfy pillow,” with a trembling, reluctant hand, the ghost covered Lydia with the sheet and blanket, “and the warm blanket.”

“mmm.” Lydia’s head turned from his, and snuggled into the pillow.

“Yeah, that’s it, curl up in yer soft, warm bed, an’ drift off t’ sleep…”

Beetlejuice waited. After two minutes, Lydia’s breathing was quiet and even.

A muffled voice behind the pillow between his thighs said, “But she wants me, she _wants_ me!“

Beetlejuice threw the pillow aside, leapt off the bed, and dove through the mirror. He landed in his narrow, cold, and lonely coffin bed.

“Hey! Right Hand!” yelled his erection. “We got a _date!_ ”

 


	6. In Which a Plot is Born.

“Lydia! _Lydia!”_

Groggy, Lydia opened one eye over the blanket hiked up to her nose. A pale, cold sunshine filled her room.

Delia’s voice penetrated through the door with amazing clarity. “Didn’t you say you had to be at work at _noon_?”

 _Yeah. But my alarm’s set for ten, and it hasn’t gone off._ Lydia lifted her head and looked at her Dracula alarm clock.

“ _Eleven-thirty!_ How did it get to be _eleven-thirty?!”_ she yelped.

Fumbling, the young woman threw aside the blanket and scrambled out of bed.

“You’ll have to take your car, dear.”

“I know, I know!” There was no time to shower, or to wash her hair. She changed into her uniform, which she’d neglected to launder the day before. She hadn’t been able to buy new khakis, either.

“I didn’t turn off my alarm, I _know_ I didn’t!” Lydia muttered through a headache as she ran a brush through her hair, pinned it up, and pushed back her bangs with her hairband. But then, she wasn’t very clear on a lot of what had happened the previous evening. She recalled Chad’s obnoxious parents, but she didn’t remember eating dinner. There was something about kissing Beej, but it may have been a dream. “God, Karl will rip me apart if I’m late again.”

In the bathroom, she brushed the terrible taste out of mouth, and ran a washcloth over her face. _I have dark circles under my eyes. I didn’t know that really happened._

As she rushed out the door, car keys jangling in her hand, Charles yelled, “You need breakfast!”

“No time!” Lydia called back. Thankfully, the car started quickly, and she was off.

…………………………………..

No one at the Mondo Mall noticed the small flash of light as the wall clock in Mobybucks turned from dark green to black-and-white striped.

 _Hmm._ Beetlejuice saw the pig-tailed girl, Edie, at the steamer. A large, African-American woman was throwing her bag over her shoulder and stomping out with finality. _So where’s Lyds?_

“Portia wasn’t up to the job,” came the voice of the tall, rat-guy in the back room.

“She was a good worker!” It was Lydia. “You promised her the night shift, and then you made her work mornings, too. No wonder no one stays here for more than three months!”

Beetlejuice vanished from the clock. He possessed Lydia’s hairband.

“Are you complaining, Deetz?” said Karl. “Pretty funny, from a girl who shows up only two minutes before she has to clock in.”

“Didn’t it occur to you that if you actually _listen_ to your employees, you might _keep_ them?” Lydia’s soft skin was pasty. Her lips were pale. She looked like she had the beginning of a cold.

“This is the Real World, young lady. If you can’t handle it, go back to Mommy and Daddy.”

“I’m _handling it!_ ” snapped Lydia.

“So set up your register and get to work!”

Cursing to herself, Lydia began counting the cash in her register drawer, to make sure it was three-hundred dollars. “Two-hundred and…no. Did I count that twenty?” She sighed and started again.

 _She’s losin’ it_ , thought Beetlejuice. _All she needs is a lil’ push over the edge, an’ Karl will fire in her no time._

“Oh, gawd. _You_ again,” said a dry, snotty voice.

_An’ here’s th' little push._

Recognizing the voice, Lydia closed her eyes, took a deep breath, and said, before she looked up, “Good afternoon, Claire. What can I get—“ Lydia stared.

Claire Brewster’s face was dotted with small bruises, including one which had swollen the area around her left eye. There was a scabby scrape on her chin. She was wearing a PINK hoodie, zipped up to her neck. Uncharacteristically, her hair wasn’t styled, but pulled back into a bun. Behind her, The Entourage had similar scrapes and bruises.

“Jus’ take my order, an’, like, don’t _say_ anything.” Claire took a step forward with a clunk. Lydia noticed a protective boot on her right foot and ankle. “I wouldn’t even totally _come_ here, if this wasn’t the only Mobybucks in this sucky town. And having to use that _asshole_ taxi.”

J.I. Rodale arrived when he wanted to. He charged what he wanted to. Being the only driver of the only taxi in Peaceful Pines, he could do that.

 _Guess somebody won’t be modelin’ for a while._ Beetlejuice chuckled to himself.

Lydia, however, had a different reaction. “I’m sorry you were hurt by the storm, Claire.”

_Whut?_

“Like, _whatever_. I want a double espresso, two shots hazelnut, one shot vanilla, no foam, extra hot.”

Lydia tried very hard not to have a schadenfreude moment about Claire’s injuries. They probably hurt. And they would probably keep Claire out of work until she healed. Lydia’s heart happily skipped like a two-year-old at Claire’s expense, and then she felt awful for enjoying it. If Claire had been hurt due to something she’d said or done, well, then she’d deserve it. But it had happened during a freak storm, something Claire couldn’t have brought upon herself. Lydia avoided looking at her hated school tormentor as Claire took her espresso from Edie, because she didn’t want to burst into a grin.

“This isn’t _right_.” Claire’s voice was acidic.

“But, I made it the way it was ordered,” said Edie.

Claire marched over to Lydia. “What did I order, if you don’t _mind?_ ”

“A Double espresso, two shots of hazelnut, and one shot of vanilla, no foam, and extra hot.”

“That is so totally **not** what I said.” The blonde young woman slammed the cup down on the counter.

“Claire, I typed it in even as you said it—“

“I **want** a double espresso, _one_ shot hazelnut, _two_ shots vanilla, _with_ foam, extra hot!”

“That’s not what you said the first time.”

“That’s _what I_ _ **want**_.” Claire’s glare could have melted the glaze from a plate.

“Okay. That’s the same price as what you _did_ order. We’ll make you a new one.” Lydia wrote down the instructions on a new cup and handed it to Edie.

Lydia was ringing up another customer when Claire stormed over with her fresh cup. She shoved her way between the customer and the register, and barked, “Why are you, like, _hassling_ me? This is _not_ what I ORDERED!”

Lydia’s hairband became so hot she took it off and stuffed it under the counter. All but smoking with fury, Beetlejuice moved to possessing the painting on the wall.  The oil paint softened from the heat.

Lydia assumed it was her own temper which had made her feel hot. She said, in a low, restrained voice, “That is what you ordered, Claire.”

“Where’s your manager?” Claire yelled, “I wanna talk to the manager!”

 _Why didn’t I cripple her fer life when I had th’ chance?_ Beetlejuice hissed to himself.

“Miss!” Karl popped out of the backroom and hurried over to Claire. “Is there a problem?”

“ _ **She**_ ,” Claire aimed a finger with a broken nail at Lydia, “is, like, so _absolutely, totally_ messing up my order on _purpose!”_

“I. Am. Not,” Lydia replied, in a raw voice held back on a very short leash.

“But, she’s got it wrong twice,” said Edie.

Lydia glared at her, disbelieving. Edie’s grin revealed that she was more than happy to let Lydia take all the heat, if it meant _she_ came out unscathed.

“She’s doing it on _purpose_ ,” Claire insisted.

“I’m so sorry for your trouble, Miss,” Karl said, unctuously. “You tell Edie exactly what you want, and she’ll whip it up for you right away! No charge!” He snapped at Lydia, “Give this young woman her money back!”

Breathing very deeply and slowly, Lydia refunded Claire’s money.

Karl bowed, actually, bowed, to Claire, and, with a shaking hand, offered her his business card. “If you ever need _anything,_ you just let me know.”

“Maybe.” Claire took his card and stuffed it into one of her hoodie’s pockets. As she turned toward Edie, Claire’s eyes met Lydia’s. They twinkled maliciously as she smiled. She winked.

Lydia ground her teeth. Her hands tightened on her hairband so hard it snapped.

“Deetz! No more slip-ups, or else!” Karl threatened. He returned to the backroom.

 _Maintain_ , thought Lydia, _maintain…_

Claire rejoined her entourage, holding the coffee aloft in a gesture of victory. They all laughed as they walked into the mall.

 _ **That’s it.**_ Beetlejuice zapped himself to the size of a bug and sat in the middle of the coffee shop’s fern, hyperventilating with rage into a tiny paper bag. _I’m gonna get her; I’m gonna_ _ **wreck**_ _her._ He threw the bag aside, and peered through the fern leaves at the departing blonde.

In a tiny flash, the ghost vanished from the shop and reappeared in Lydia’s bedroom.

“So what does that blonde bimbo value th' most?” Beetlejuice paced. “Her looks. Her money. Her status.” He sat on the bed, his back against the headboard, his right leg bent and the other across its knee with its boot bouncing irritably as he thought. “Looks….money…status….”

“Charles!” Tom Lowell’s voice boomed downstairs. “How’s about you drive us over to the garage in about a half hour, to get my car? Should be ready by now, why wait for them to call?”

A literal light bulb switched on above Beetlejuice’s head. An exceedingly evil laugh burst from him.

“Oh _**yeah!**_ I can get Claire _and_ th’ Lowells _at th' same time!_ Brilliant, ‘Juice, _brilliant!”_

With a cackle of lightning, the ghost vanished.

 


	7. In Which Step One and Step Two Are Achieved.

Nate, a senior at Peaceful Pines High, had worked the counter at the Gloria’s Autopia for only a month. He was used to his home town being quiet, but the residents were _so_ quiet and cautious that they rarely needed extensive auto repair. The freak storm had been heaven sent, as far as his boss was concerned. She’d squealed with glee when the tow-trucks filled their lot with hail, lightning and accident damaged vehicles, from minis to semis. “This will pay for the rest of the year!” Gloria yelled, grabbing Nate by the hands and dancing him in a circle.

Nate wasn’t a mechanic; he was just the cashier. He’d done more work in the last forty-eight hours than he’d done the previous three and a half weeks. He was busy looking at the list of who to call to come get their repaired cars, and didn’t hear the door open. In fact, he was sure the door _hadn’t_ opened. No one had appeared on the security camera.

So how did the guy with the black ski mask and gun enter the shop without Nate hearing or seeing him?

Nate instinctively threw his arms straight up. Gloria had told him that if there was ever a burglary, to forget any heroics and just hand over whatever the thief wanted.

“Is this a stick-up?” Nate’s voice cracked.

“Naw. I’m selling Girl Scout cookies. Jeez.” The voice was deep, dry, and sarcastic. “Keep yer arms above yer head, yadda yadda. C’mon, kid, move into th’ restroom.”

Nate hesitated. “Don’t you want me to open the safe?”

“You’ve got a safe? What’s an auto repair shop got a _safe_ for? Never mind. Look, kid, I’m pressed fer time.”

Nate, his hands above his head, led the masked man through the store room to the rest room. The man in the ski mask asked, “Y’want any snacks? Or a pop? Somethin’ to read? Ya might be in there fer a while.”

“No, that’s okay. Actually,” Nate looked around, “could you just lock me in the store room? There’re no windows, but we keep the fridge in here, and I can get to the bathroom. There’s even a TV.”

“Whoa. Sweet set-up. Sure, sure, why not.” The masked man stepped out and started to close the door.

“Don’t you want to take my cell phone so I can’t call the police?” asked Nate.

“Yeah, good idea.” The burglar pocketed it. “I’ll leave it at th' cash register when I go.”

“Cool, dude, appreciate it. You want the keys so I can’t unlock the door?” Nate held them out to the man.

“Jeez, forgot all about that. Okay, you good? Shouldn’t be more than an hour before th' cops get you out.”

“I’m fine, no problem.” Nate took a Coke and a ham sandwich from the fridge, turned on the TV, and settled down for _The Young and the Restless_ with his feet up on a box of oil filters.

……………………………………………………………

“It was great of you and Delia to put us up for the night,” said Tom Lowell as Charles pulled into Gloria’s Autopia. “That’s a great house. Isn’t it a great house, honey?”

“Sure is, dear,” Sandy Lowell agreed from the back seat.

“Well, you feel free to come by _any_ time you like,” said Delia. She didn’t like the Lowells, but at least they were a diversion from the Town With No Taste.

“It certainly was nice to have company for once,” said Charles, as they entered the auto shop’s lobby. “You’ll have to come again, when – AA!” He froze in his tracks, his eyes bugging. _“You?!”_

“Hey, Mr. Deetz! Lookin’ good, Mrs. Deetz!” Beetlejuice, in a dark blue auto mechanics’ jumpsuit, waved from behind the counter.

“Mr. Beetleman?” Delia peered in disbelief at the name _Beetleman_ embroidered on the jumpsuit’s breast pocket. “You work _here_ , too?”

“Y’know me, Mrs. D. Jack of all trades. Winter’s a slow time for lawn care an’ gardening, so I gotta supplement the income. Aaaaand who’s the handsome couple with you today?”

Too flabbergasted to realize he was babbling, Charles said, “Tom Lowell, Dean at Sarah Lawrence College, and his wife, Sandy. Uh, this is Mr. Beetleman, who does a lot of, well, things, in Peaceful Pines.”

The ghost grabbed Tom Lowell’s hand, too tightly, and shook it, too hard. “I’m whatcha call the ‘local color.’” He slapped Lowell on the back so hard he jumped. “An’ you’re a _vision_ , Mrs. Dean Lowell,” he added, gripping the woman around her mink-coated waist too tight and winking at her. He whapped her on the rump, which made her squeak, then rubbed his hands together. “So, what can I do you for?”

“My car,” said Lowell, flustered.

“Oh, right! _Lowell!_ ” Beetlejuice tsked. “Oh man. What a tragedy.”

“A what?” said Tom Lowell, not liking that word.

“Yer car. Right this way.”

The Deetzs, with dread, and the Lowells, with confusion, followed the man with the shaggy blond hair into the garage. He lifted the hood of the shiny black Lincoln Town Car. “Take a gander.”

“What the _hell?!”_ boomed Tom Lowell.

The engine block was melted into the battery and the carburetor, with frazzled wires sticking out randomly.

“What happened?” yelled Dean Lowell.

“Sure looks like lightning to me,” Beetlejuice said, with a whistle.

“But, but, it only had the smashed windshield! And cracked windows!” yipped Mrs. Lowell. “It couldn’t have been struck by lightning!”

“I dunno.” Shrugging, Beetlejuice wiped his hands on a towel. “That’s the’ way it was when the’ tow-truck brought her in.” The ghost draped an arm over Tom’s shoulders. “Yer car’s dead. An’ believe me, I’m an’ expert on _dead_.”

“But…but…” Lowell looked at the mess from every angle. “This _can’t_ have happened!”

“Oh,” said Charles, who had many years’ experience with unexplained phenomenon, “it has.”

“But I’ve got to get back to the college by tomorrow morning!” bleated Tom Lowell.

“Well,” said Beetlejuice, leaning on the hood with one hand, “if I may be so bold, how about Mr. and Mrs. D. drive ya?”

Charles and Delia gave “Mr. Beetleman” a horrified look, while Tom Lowell beamed with hopeful panic. “You can do that, can’t you, Charles?” Tom all but begged. “I’ve got a speech with the Phi Beta Kappa brunch! With _very_ important guests!”

Charles gazed accusingly at the metal lump under the car’s open hood. “You don’t have a rental car by any chance, do you, Mr. Beetleman?”

“Sorry, nope. Not enough call for rental cars in Peaceful Pines.”

Charles sighed. “I can drive you.”

Tom Lowell pumped Charles’ hand with desperate gratitude. “You can spend the night at _our_ place! We insist!”

“Oh. Good,” Charles mumbled, his plan to leisurely read _The New York Times_ in front of the fireplace going up in smoke.

“It’s so great this all worked out!” said Beetlejuice, grabbing the Lowells around their necks in an overly chummy hug. “So, all I need from ya is the fee t’ have this clunker towed to the scrap yard.”

“Fee?” Tom pulled himself from Beetlejuice’s grip.

“A thousand dollars.”

“ _What?!”_ the two couples said in chorus.

“Well, ya can’t just leave it _here_ ,” said Beetlejuice, “and expect _us_ to pay t’ have it hauled away.” Suddenly, the ghost thrust what looked like very official company papers, with very tiny print, in the Dean’s face. “We just contract to _repair_ your car, if it can be; we don’t do storage or disposal. It’s your car, your responsibility. Failure to remove your vehicle from the premises of Gloria’s Autopia, LLC, will incur a fine or legal action.” He added, quickly, “Page six, paragraph three, lines five through twelve.”

“But…but…” sputtered Tom, squinting at the print.

Beetlejuice stuck a finger on Lowell’s lips to shut him up. “Tell ya what I’ll do. You give _me_ five hundred dollars, an’ I’ll cover the remainin’ five bills. Out of th’ goodness of my heart.”

“Do _you_ have that kind of money, Mr. Beetleman?” said Delia, disbelieving.

“I live fugally, Mrs. D., very frugally, on several wise investments, if ya know whut I mean. Besides, I’ll write it off. Make th’ car a donation to some charity or other. So! How’s about it?”

Charles, with the weary voice of having dealt with Mr. Beetleman for years, said, “I’d do it, Tom.”

“I prefer cash,” said Beetlejuice, grinning. “ATM’s over there.”

As stunned Tom Lowell went to the automatic teller, Charles walked Beetlejuice away from the others. He whispered, “I haven’t had the opportunity to say this since January, but…um...thanks for not taking any kind of, uh, _action,_ concerning that _misunderstanding_ I had about my thinking, um, you were interested in my…well, y’know.”

“No sweat, Chuckster,” said Beetlejuice, remembering the small revenge he’d exacted. “I’m glad you’re so protective of your daughter. As a matter of fact…” He linked his arm around Charles’ neck and drew his head down, uncomfortably close as far as Charles was concerned, and whispered, “A little bird told me. That guy. His kid’s _Chad Lowell_?”

“How do _you_ know?”

“Never mind. Keep that kid away from Lydia. Just take my word for it, willya?” Beetlejuice laid a finger to the side of his nose, pointed it at Charles and winked, then released him.

“But, how…?” mumbled Charles, rubbing his neck.

Tom Lowell came over, holding out five hundred dollar bills to Beetlejuice, and not looking happy about it.

“Let’s make this all legal an’ hunky-dory.” Speaking rapid-fire, Beetlejuice said, “Here’s your car’s Certificate of Title; it was in the’ glove compartment; dunno why it’s called a glove compartment, nobody ever keeps gloves in the things anymore, just maps and candy bars they forgot about, _SO,_ you just sign this clunker over,” he shoved a pen in Tom Lowell’s hand, “right here at ‘Assignment by Seller/Transferor, now your name, address, great, _great!_ An’ I’ll just sign my name an’ address—“

As if completely unaware of what he was doing, Lowell signed.

“Lemme make you a photocopy,” the ghost slammed the Car Title onto the small copier behind the register, punched a button, and handed the copy to the overwhelmed man. “All done, car’s mine now, you’ve got no potential liability whatsoever, here, have a free calendar and a pine-scented air freshener, better hit the road, long drive ahead!”

Beetlejuice held the door open for them and waved as Tom Lowell, bearing the expression of a man hit on the back of the head with a two by four, was pushed out by Charles Deetz. Delia led Mrs. Lowell, whose mouth was opening and shutting like a goldfish’s.

“I don’t think I know what just happened,” said Tom, as he plunked down into the passenger seat.

“Welcome to my world,” sighed Charles. He got in, turned the key, and they headed for the interstate.

Beetlejuice’s laugh shook the lobby windows. With a flash, he was in his signature outfit. He yanked down the shop’s window shades and locked the front door. Rubbing his hands together, he went out to the Lincoln Town car.

The engine had certainly been totaled by a lightning strike. The ghost had done it himself. But it would still run. Possessing a car was no more difficult for Beetlejuice than possessing a snow shovel, hairband, or the Deetz’s dinner guests, all of which he’d done.

“But can’t have it looking th’ same.” Beetlejuice rubbed a finger on his upper lip. “Ha!” He jabbed the same fingertip on the hood. As if adding blood to water, red color seeped across the car, until it had transformed into a deep shade of cherry.

“An’ this has got to change,” he said, eyeing the license plate. With a snap of his fingers, the plate changed from FBX 4091 to JUICE1.

Back in the shop, he knocked on the store room door. “Ya all right in there, kid?”

“Serena is actually Troy’s _sister_!” Nate yelled back. “WHOA, dude!”

Beetlejuice put the clerk’s cell phone and the toy gun on the counter. He didn’t have to worry about the security camera; he’d zapped that when he first arrived. Though, being a ghost, he wouldn’t have been recorded, it would have looked suspicious if it had shown Nate, the Deetzs and the Lowells, speaking to empty air. He also didn’t have to worry about fingerprints.

Licking his lips, Beetlejuice considered cracking the safe. _Naw,_ he thought, _I'm pushing it as it is_. He had enough funds for his plot, he was sure. Stealing from the safe would seriously involve the police; armed robbery was so rare in the village he couldn't recall it ever have happening. He didn't want to attract more attention than his plot possibly might. This light larceny would make the news, but, since no one was hurt and no money taken, it would soon be shrugged off as yet another example of Peaceful Pines' weirdness.

“Hm. Maybe I should take somethin’, so the robbery looks legit.” Nothing interested him. A small rectangular shape on the floor in the corner caught his eye. Beetlejuice peered at it. _Roach Motel._ He picked it up and sniffed it. “A snack box!” He shook it vigorously. “An’ it’s _full!_ There’s another one! An’ another one! Bonus!”

Beetlejuice juiced the phone so it would seem to have called from a number other than the shop. Humming, he flipped the phone receiver in the air, caught it, and his thumb punched 911. He said, in a female voice, “Hello, I’m just a concerned citizen passing by, but it looks like something _suspicious_ is happening at Gloria’s Autopia. No, I prefer not to leave a name, thanks ever so.” He hung up.

Gleefully cackling, the ghost dumped his armful of insect traps into the back seat of the now cherry red Lincoln Town Car. He took the car’s original key, jammed it in the lock, and turned. The dead transmission growled, hacked, and lifted the automobile an impercivable quarter of an inch off the shop floor.

“An' fer a clean get-away…” The ghost clicked his fingers. The door to the garage creaked open. He waved his hand. The atmosphere of Peaceful Pines turned thick and white. The fog crept not on little cat’s feet, but roared in on lion’s paws. It was so dense Beetlejuice could barely see the flashing red light of the police car as it came down the road. They certainly didn’t see the red luxury sedan driving away to the Peaceful Pines cemetery.

“Step One, check!” said the ghost as he parked behind the caretaker’s building. “Just gotta grab somethin’ from Lydia’s closet, an' then on to Step Two.”

………………………..

“Can I _help_ you?” The ghoul clerk at _Eternal Beauty_ in downtown New Yuck had never seen Beetlejuice before, but she certainly knew him by reputation. She kept an eye on him, as far as her decapitated head on the velvet cushion on the counter allowed.

“Naw, I’m good.” Beetlejuice walked up and down the aisles.

“Are you looking for something for a woman? A man? An it?” The clerk’s helpfulness barely hid her wariness.

“I’ll know what I need when I see it.”

“We here at _Eternal Beauty_ have products for _all_ the beauty trends throughout _all_ the ages, so that special someone can find just the thing they used Before,” said the clerk, smelling a potential sale. “As you can see, _I’m_ sporting the 1930’s Veronica Lake Collection, including false eyelashes and red lipstick. If your beloved is from the sixteenth century, we have powdered white lead to bleach her skin. Or, if she prefers, a mixture of arsenic and mercury.”

“Uh huh.”

“If she’s Elizabethan, we have drops of deadly nightshade to enlarge her pupils and give her that bright-eyed look. For that nineteenth century lovely, there are lumps of charcoal to chew, to freshen her breath.”

“Ah HA!” Beetlejuice grabbed a set of three small boxes, tied together with a red velvet ribbon. After reading the label, he brought it to the counter. “Bingo!”

“The Venus W. Chocolates! Excellent choice, sir.” Her headless body felt its way to the cash register next to the velvet cushion. She added, suspiciously, “You _can_ pay for this?”

“Can I pay for it? Get an eyeful of _this_.” The ghost pulled a rolled wad of bills from his pocket and stuck it in front of the clerk’s face.

“OH! Is that _real_ Monopoly money?!” she gasped.

“Sure thing, toots. Even says ‘copyright Hasbro Inc.’ in th’ corner.”

Money from the Living World was worthless in the Neitherworld, which had its own monetary system. But money from Monopoly games was worth the amount printed on them. No one was really sure why. Beetlejuice had located Lydia’s old game in the back of her closet, and grabbed the lot.

Beetlejuice peeled off a blue fifty-dollar bill and put it in the clerk’s body’s hand. “Keep the’ change.”

“A _pleasure_ doing business with you, Mr. Beetlejuice! Oh, now remember the instructions! She must eat one box of three chocolates per day, for three days in a row. She must eat them _all, before midnight,_ or she won’t achieve the desired result.”

“Got it!”

Cackling as he walked out of the shop, Beetlejuice crammed the boxes into his suit pocket. “Now, Step _Three_.”

 


	8. In Which It Is Some Enchanted Evening.

“Seriously, Claire,” Alison whispered. “He’s totally checkin’ ya out.”

“Of _course_ he is.” Claire Brewster snickered airily. An expert with makeup, she’d concealed her bruises, and the dimness of the bar masked the swelling over her eye. Despite doctor’s orders, Claire had removed the protective boot from her foot, which had made her leg look fat, and only kept the Ace bandage. Her hair was washed and professionally styled. “They all are checkin’ me out. But I am _so_ , like, _not_ lookin’ at _him.”_ She pushed her drained martini glass at the besotted bartender and winked. “That was _sooo_ yummy. Can you do it again?”

The bartender hadn’t looked at her driver’s license, for fear of confirmation that she was indeed under twenty-one. Rather than risk having Claire Brewster, Professional Model, the only celebrity Peaceful Pines had ever produced, walk out of the Mondo Mall’s _T.G.I. Fridays_ bar, he’d keep whatever she wanted coming.

“Ya gotta look.” Savannah showed her teeth with malicious delight. “He is so absolutely the ugliest guy I have _ever_ seen.”

Curiosity and boredom got the better of Claire. The one thing she totally hated about visiting her parents was enduring a return to the provincial village where she’d grown up. Once she had her high school diploma, Claire couldn’t escape Peaceful Pines fast enough. Every year she demanded that her parents move back to Miami. Her parents, stuck in their ways, and enjoying being very big fish in a very small and inexpensive pond, didn’t listen.

Unfortunately, this visit coincided with a horrible freak storm, which not only wrecked Claire’s scheduled photo-shoots until she was completely healed (digital editing could only do so much before she'd look like a plastic doll), but it had murdered Brian’s car. With no taxis or rental cars in the village, or anywhere affordably nearby, Claire and her entourage were trapped in her home town until her parents’ car, which had also suffered storm damage, was repaired. Gloria’s Autopia said that, with the waiting list, it would take up to six days. Being stuck was _torture_.

Claire was quite used to unwanted attention from lowly males who had neither the looks nor the money worthy of so much as a glance from her. But, finally, the derisive snorts of her companions were enough to encourage her to turn her head and look over her shoulder.

“Oh m’ _gawd_.” Claire looked away immediately. “It’s that _guy_.”

“What guy?” asked Brian.

As if to answer that very question, the man sidled up to the bar and took the stool beside Claire. He leaned on an elbow and grinned at the young woman with the worst teeth she had ever seen. His pale skin looked white next to Claire’s tanned arm. His shock of yellow hair was tied back in a ponytail, and looked as if he’d combed it with a rake. Even more hideous was his rayon shirt, which was magenta with a beetle pattern, and his khakis, which were black-and-white-striped.

The man lifted his sunglasses to his forehead. His half-lidded eyes actually looked yellow.

“Hiya.” His voice was deep and scratchy.

“You’re Mr. Whatzhisface,” said Claire, with disgust. “The guy who does all the, like, stuff.”

“Yup, th' guy who does all th', like, _stuff_ ,” Mr. Beetleman echoed. “You’ve really grown up, _Claire_.”

“Huh! Don’t talk to me like you _know_ me.”

“Aw, c’mon. I’ve seen ya around Peaceful Pines since you were, what? Twelve? An’ look at ya now.” He whistled approvingly.

The bartender, sensing a man trying to horn in on his dreamed-for action, set the martini firmly in front of Claire and glared threateningly at the interloper.

The handy man leaned in closer to the young woman. “Lemme buy that for ya.”

“I don’t _think_ so. Oh m’gawd, the ‘ _Handy Dandy Man’_ buyin’ _moi_ a drink! SO not happenin’.”

“What _she_ said,” said the bartender acidly.

Claire stirred the martini with its speared olive, and added with a superior tone, “Bug off, loser.”

“Loser, hm? Okay. Suit yerself.” Mr. Beetleman took an enormous wad of bills from his pants pocket. “Hey, pal, can ya break a hundred? Smallest thing I got.”

The bartender didn’t respond because he, like Claire, was gawking at the roll the size of a softball.

“Just a Coke,” said the handy man, waving the hundred dollar bill. “Spritz some cherry juice in it, willya?”

Without a thought of any possible rudeness, Claire spurted, “Where did _you_ get _cash_ like _**that**_ _?_ ”

“Never judge a book by its cover, sweetie. Or even its blurb.” Mr. Beetleman put his head near Claire’s, and said in a voice like the low rumble of a distant thunderstorm, “Sometime’s a person wants to keep under th’ radar, know whut I _mean?_ ”

Claire’s career in the big, bad cities had taught her a thing or two about less than legal business dealings, and ugly men with loads of dough. She’d snubbed their attention; she had more than enough gorgeous young guys to choose from. But trapped in this backwater, there wasn’t much diversion. She was already bored to sobs with her companions, who she’d only allowed to drive her so she would have _someone_ to keep her amused. This Mr. Beetleman had always given her the creeps -- why did he never seem to _age_ , like the other adults in town?--- and she’d hated him anyway because he'd always seemed to like Lydia Deetz. Claire had her theories about _that_.

“So…” Mr. Beetleman continued to slowly wave the bill up and down. “You an’ yer friends want t' join me? Or ya got somethin’ better t' do?”

Claire was a professional at smiling when she didn’t feel like it. “Well, if you’re _offering_.”

“Round’s on me, barkeep.” Mr. Beetleman’s grin was both triumphant and dangerous.

……………………………………

Lydia drove home, slowly. She was still furious, and exhausted, from Karl’s barking at her for having not yet bought new work pants. He’d written her up, for that and for her “harassment” of Claire, and he threatened that one more write-up would mean her “termination.” He’d said it as if he meant it literally. He became even more belligerent when Lydia failed to demonstrate proper remorse and fear.

Karl was getting plenty of fear from Pixie, the new hire. _Seriously, who in their right mind names their daughter “Pixie?”_ Lydia thought. Pixie was small and nervous, reminding Lydia of her friend Prudence, as Prudence used to be. (Prudence was now with the Peace Corps in war-torn countries, facing pirates and cholera epidemics. Her emails were full of cheerfully enthusiastic stories about having finished a town’s new well while ducking sniper fire.)

It was rare to see another car on the road in Peaceful Pines at eleven twenty at night. It was even rarer to see a red luxury sedan, at any time. While she waited for the light, the Town Car squealed its tires and barreled across the intersection.

_Wait a minute. Is that…?_ Lydia stared after the car’s taillight as it sped away. “Claire? And her friends? The driver looked like…” She shook her head. “God, I’ve _got_ to get more sleep.”

……………………………………………………..

The _Dew Drop Inn_ had added karaoke only six weeks ago. After the failure of the mechanical bull, the foosball game, and an attempt at retro nostalgia with Ms. Pac-Man, the owner decided to give karaoke a try. No one else in town had it (but then, the only other restaurants and bars in the village were _T.G.I. Fridays_ and the Egglectic Cafe).

Tonight, the owner regretted his decision, and so did the regulars. The guy on the tiny stage now, who’d introduced himself as “Mr. Beetleman, the Handy Dandy Man,” had chosen Aerosmith’s _Walk This Way_. Rather than singing to it, he was playing his armpit.

The Entourage didn’t know whether to laugh or flee. Already inebriated before Mr. Beetleman had suggested that they move on from the mall to the dive, they were just finishing a second round of Budweisers and Jack Daniels shots, so their judgment about whether what they were hearing was hilarious or hideous was impaired.

Claire’s big, blue eyes darted around, noticing the dive’s regulars recognizing her, and quite obviously whispering among themselves about why the Local Girl Who Made Good was slumming with the train wreck at the microphone. She couldn’t leave: The train wreck was paying, _and_ driving.

“Thank you, thank you,” said Mr. Beetleman, bowing to nonexistent applause. He strolled over to the table and plopped down next to Claire. He draped a leg over his chair’s arm. “Your glass is lookin’ pretty low, Blondie. Let’s cheer it up.” He yelled, “Barkeep! Another round!”

The owner, Phil, who was also the bartender, wanted to tell the guy where to stick it. But he was the biggest spender the inn had had since the Shriner bus broke down last summer. He brought over two pitchers, shots, and a Cherry Coke for the obnoxious guy. The obnoxious guy handed him payment, as well as a damn nice tip.

“Enjoying yerself, Pinky?” Mr. Beetleman asked Claire. The Entourage fell on the drinks like hyenas on a lion’s kill. “Speechless, huh? Yeah, my performance blew them away.” He paused, then farted with astonishing volume. He lifted his glass and yelled to the regulars, “Hey! This is Claire Brewster! Professional Model! An' she’s with _me!_ ”

The crowd stared.

“Oh m’gawd.” Claire shrunk into her chair. “Take me home.”

“What’s th’ matter? Hungry?” The handy man offered her the bowl of beer nuts on the table.

Even in the bad light, the nuts looked as if they had a patina of mold. “I would so not eat _those_ ,” said Savannah, wrinkling her nose.

“Neither would I.” Mr. Beetleman poked the bowl. A cockroach skittered out. The young people screamed. The man’s hand shot out and snatched the insect. He bit off its head.

Alison rushed to the bathroom.

“ _Take me home_ ,” Claire hissed.

Mr. Beetleman leaned both his arms on the table and pressed his shoulder against the young woman’s. He spoke, in a low, conspiratorial voice. “Now, why would ya want me t' do that? Keep cool, Princess. We don’t want anybody thinkin’ I’m anythin’ but a lowly handy man. I blow my cover, th’ moola stops flowin.’” He added, in an even lower, deeper, and more leering tone, “An' yer enjoyin' the money, _aren’t_ ya? Because yer gonna be short for work for th' next four weeks or so. That’s a huge bite in th' income. But, I’m bettin’ ya have big bites of _out_ come, what with credit cards, bicoastal travel, hair, clothes, all those fun things that keep ya livin’ the dream. So havin’ a guy pay the piper while you play is a _good_ thing, isn’t it?” He slipped an arm around her shoulders. She shuddered. His voice dropped to a whisp brushing her ear. “We’ll just have some _fun_ for a few days, an’ then me, you an' yer little friends can say bye-bye an' part company. Hmm?”

The man certainly talked like some of the shadier characters Claire had encountered, the kind who were one thing in public and quite another in private. As gross as he was, he _wasn’t_ stupid, and he wasn’t a fool. And he had money.

Claire smiled insincerely, lifted a shot glass, and clinked it against Mr. Beetleman’s Coke.

“That’s a _good_ girl,” he answered. Claire downed the shot in one gulp. “Howzabout some sweets for th' sweet?” From a large pocket in his khakis he removed a small, shiny red box, and lay it on the table. With a strangely red-tipped forefinger, he pushed it at Claire.

Drunk and intrigued, Claire opened it. Lying on red velvet were three small, round chocolates.

“Godivas?” said Claire.

“Naw. These are _special_. You can’t find these _anywhere_.”

Bootleg chocolates. Claire had heard of such things, injected with cocaine or hallucinogens. Not bothering to ask what they might contain, or what their effects might be, Claire instantly popped one in her mouth.

Mr. Beetleman’s nostrils flared as he watched her chew.

It was the most disturbingly, divinely sensuous thing Claire had ever tasted. Smooth, rich, sumptuous, with a barely perceivable tingle. It caressed her tongue as it melted. It was almost… _sexual_. For Claire, whose experiences with sex usually involved alcohol and not caring, it was frighteningly exhilarating.

“Go on,” purred Mr. Beetleman.

Claire swore a strange, green, striped tongue licked the gross man’s lips as she chewed another chocolate. The second seemed to increase the effects of the first. Whatever they were laced with, it wasn’t anything Claire had ever experienced before.

“Must be good stuff.” Allison reached for the last chocolate.

Mr. Beetleman slapped the girl’s hand, hard. She yelped and held it to her chest, staring at him. His eyes seemed luminous in the dive’s dimness. She could swear the teeth in his grin were pointier.

“These are for _Princess_.” He whispered almost hypnotically to Claire, “C’mon. Finish th’ last one. I _insist_.”

 


	9. In Which Ships Pass in the Night.

Lydia went straight to sleep after work, but when she’d woken this morning at four a.m., she wasn’t rested. She was beginning to believe she’d never catch up on her lack of sleep.

Work had worn her down, physically and emotionally. With Portia gone, Mobybucks was severely short-staffed. Pixie was still training, so she couldn’t serve customers or make drinks quickly, or well. As perky as Edie was, she preferred to spend time in the backroom, chumming with Karl, than behind the counter, actually working.

After she clocked out at one o’clock, Lydia drove to the uniform store and bought a pair of regulation khakis.

Lydia’s parents had spent the night in Bronxville, New York, with the Lowells, and wouldn’t be home till that night. Even so, she desperately needed an escape. The Door to the Neitherworld remained open, as long as Lydia didn’t say Beetlejuice’s name three times. When she was a child Lydia constantly worried that her parents would stumble across it, but she now knew that the Living rarely saw anything having to do with the dead and Beyond. As much as thrill-seekers attempted to call up ghosts or open portals to Beyond, they never did, unless there was a poltergeist that dropped them hints, typically to their detriment. The Afterlife's Rules were strict, and only the very powerful could break them. Like Beetlejuice.

Though she had a key to the Roadhouse, Lydia thought it polite to knock. She didn’t live there, so she didn’t feel she had the right to walk in unannounced whenever it suited her.

Ginger, hanging by a thread, opened the door. She looked surprised. “Hiya, Lydia. Whatcha doin’ _here?_ ”

“Oh. I’m sorry. If I’m intruding—“

“Naw, you never intrude! Jus’, Jacques an’ me thought you were with Beetlejuice.”

“He isn’t here?”

“Non, mon petite.” Jacques came to the door. “Entre, entre!” As Lydia entered the Living Room, Jacques explained, “We have not seen of him much, so we make the assumption he is with vou.”

“I haven’t seen him for almost two days.” Lydia, still constantly tired, hadn’t realized until that moment that it’d been that long.

“Wasn’t he partyin’ with you last night?” Ginger sounded confused as she climbed up on the couch. “He didn’t come in till really late.”

Lydia’s chuckle was sour. “I haven’t had fun in almost a month. Why do you think he was partying with me?”

“Well,” Jacques spoke hesitantly, as if only just considering that this might be an uncomfortable situation, “he had on the especially tasteless Hawaiian beetle shirt. He contained the odors of whiskey and cigarettes.”

“And perfume,” Ginger added. Jacques, now certain this was something Lydia shouldn't know, shot her a look. “What? Well, he did. I remember, ‘cause it smelled kinda expensive. I remember thinkin’ ‘He an’ Lydia don’t drink or smoke, an' she don’t wear perfume, just nice body lotion. Wonder where they were?’”

“No, he…wasn’t with me.” Lydia sat down. A dim recollection of the red sedan she’d seen came to mind. She shook her head and smiled at her friends. “I’ve been working, and busy with my family. He gets bored so easily, he probably needed to unwind. I mean, he’s got his own death to not live!” she added, in an attempt at Afterlife humor.

The skeleton and the spider saw what Beetlejuice meant by Lydia being a wreck. Her skin was dry and her eyes dull. Her posture slumped, as if she were carrying a great weight.

“Why doncha join us t’night, hon?” Ginger patted the couch. “We haven’t seen ya in such a long time.”

“Oui, we have missed your company. And Beetlejuice, he will be happy to see you when he returns.”

“I’ve missed you, too.” Tired as she was, Lydia felt happy for the first time in weeks. She settled in and began telling about all that had happened.

………………………………….

The lock turning in the Roadhouse door woke Lydia with a start. She blinked, surprised to find herself lying on the Living Room’s couch, a pillow under her head, a light cover over her. When had she fallen asleep? She, Jacques and Ginger had talked for a long time. Ginger had popped some flies (popped flies with butter and salt was something Lydia had actually come to enjoy), and they’d watched _How I Bought the Farm_. She remembered a ghost recalling how he had yelled “I SAID, ‘Turn off the thresher!!”, and now, the door was opening.

Beetlejuice halted in his tracks. He stared down at Lydia. She stared up at him.

“Oh.” He paused. “Yer here.”

“Oh. Hi.” She’d never seen that shirt before. It was cool; it had several species of beetles on a magenta background. What wasn’t cool was the acrid stink of cigarettes. And the smoky smell of whiskey.

The other scent seemed dimly familiar. Lydia couldn’t place it.

Lydia sat up. “How are you?”

“Um...” Beetlejuice’s arms hung at his sides. His fingers twiddled. “Tired. You?”

“Tired.”

The ghost cleared his throat. “Well. Guess we better both get some sleep.”

They remained as they were. Lydia waited for him to say something, to move toward her. The only movement he made was to cover a pants pocket with his hand. It looked full; something was in it.

“Oh.” Lydia said, in a small voice, “You mean, you’re going to sleep here. And I’m going back to my room.”

“It’s late. Ya need yer rest. Fer work.”

“Right. I’m scheduled for the morning shift. Again.” Lydia stood up. She waited. He didn’t come closer. Quite obviously he wanted her to leave.

With a tight throat, Lydia said, as she walked by him, “G’night, then.”

“Yeah. G’night.”

Lydia closed the Door behind her as a tear slid down her cheek. She’d been afraid to reach out and touch him; he was so distant, so cold. It wasn’t like him at all, especially since they’d become more than best friends.

“Even just best friends hug good night. _We_ used to.” She wiped her face with her hand. “I’m being silly, I’m taking everything personally because I’m so wiped.”

As Lydia changed into her pajamas, she glanced at the mirror. It showed only her reflection; Beetlejuice had closed the portal on his side. Why? Sure, they didn’t keep it open all the time, they respected each other’s need for privacy, but…why close it now?

Under the covers, she hugged one of her pillows. He didn’t try to kiss her any more. He didn’t caress her any more. When was the last time he’d had that ravenous look? Sure, she didn’t remember the last few days well, but what she did recall was her wanting him, and his turning away. Something about kissing his stomach, kissing his wound which would never heal, and him whispering about how she needed to go to sleep. It hadn’t been a dream, had it?

And then that car. With Claire and The Entourage. And the yellow-haired, pale man wearing sunglasses driving it. Who could drive at night while wearing sunglasses? Who would?

A ghost.

 _I’m exhausted and paranoid._ Lydia didn’t reassure herself. She fell asleep, hugging her pillow.

………………………………………….

“ _Shit_ _!”_

Beetlejuice threw off his shirt. It landed on his dresser mirror, covering it. He fanned himself with his hand. “Frickin’ Claire Brewster! What th’ hell is that perfume anyway?! Eau du Arrogance? I _reek_! An’ not in my usual sexy way!”

He slapped his hand over his eyes and grimaced. “I thought Lyds’d be at work. Forgot she was doin’ the morning shift, an’ had the rest of th' day off. Why wasn’t she home, sleepin’? She’s a frickin’ zombie; she’s gonna get hurt driving while that tired.” He groaned. “Can’t let her figure out what I’m doin’, or it’ll ruin her Valentine surprise.”

It took the entire evening, but Beetlejuice had finally gotten Claire to eat the second box of chocolates. He’d convinced her and her leeching pals to go to the Dew Drop Inn again; it was cheaper. He took the wad of cash from his pocket and counted it.

“Two-hundred an’ twenty-five of the real cash already gone on that vain, scrawny brat.” He’d padded the cash from Tom Lowell with Monopoly money, which he’d juiced to look like real bills. They’d never pass in sunlight. “Two hundred seventy-five left, an’ one night t' go.”

The chocolates evidently had an addictive power. But the amount of alcohol Claire ingested impaired that power. It’d taken hours for her to eat all three, one chocolate at a time, between cocktails and demands that Beetlejuice take her home because he was gross and embarrassing. Each time, his whispered promises of money drew her back in. Despite herself, she was having fun. Wicked, Bad Girl fun. She’d even asked him if he could procure some pot.

Beetlejuice had never done drugs, because they interfered with judgment and enjoyment, but he’d often suckered those who did. He wanted Claire tipsy so her instincts were dulled. But buying drinks for people known to be underage was as much risk as he was willing to take.

“Oh, you don’t need that kinda high, Princess,” he’d purred, slipping one hand around her disgustingly unsensuous torso while his other hand lifted a chocolate to her puffy lips. “We’re already havin’ more fun than we can stand.”

As if to illustrate his point, Savannah puked on his shoes.

He’d tossed them and juiced up his favorite black boots, claiming that they’d been in the trunk. Phil, the owner and bartender, had come over and suggested that he “take the young people home.” The “or else” was implicit.

The Inn was now off limits. The bar at _T.G.I. Fridays_ was too public, too busy. It was Claire who’d slurred that her parents would be visiting in-town friends tomorrow night. They’d have the whole house to themselves. She’d even invite some of her old chums from Miss Shannon’s School. It’d be quite the par-tay.

 _She has no idea._ Beetlejuice removed the last, small box of chocolates from his pocket. He gazed at it sitting in his palm.

Claire had to eat them all. She had to eat them before midnight. She’d do it, if he had to shove them down her throat with his bare hands. Then Lydia would have her revenge on that waste of space.

“Lydia.” Beetlejuice sat on his coffin bed. “She didn’t even try t’ kiss me. Or hug me. It was like she didn’t want me t' touch her.” He sighed. “Babe’s still worn out. Don’t take it personally, ‘Juice. Pretty soon, she’ll mess up on th' job, an’ that jerk will fire her. _Then_ she can get all th' rest she needs.”

Exhausted himself from the long day with hated company, and from restraining himself from throttling them all, he fell back into bed.

……………………………………………

Adam lowered his binoculars and looked at Barbara.

“It’s him, isn’t it?” she said.

He handed her the binoculars.

There was a clear view of Peaceful Pines’ cemetery from the second story window of Maitland Hardware, as well as views of Main Street, which connected all the shops and businesses. From their vantage point, the Maitlands could see all the comings and goings in and around the village.

“He created a mist to obscure it from the Living,” said Adam, softly, “but it’s there. It's parked behind the caretaker’s building.”

It was the same red sedan in which five young people had been riding to and from the Dew Drop Inn, and then up the hill to the Brewster’s. The same sedan with the pale, yellow-haired, tacky clothed driver, who, after he’d parked the car in the cemetery, vanished with a flicker and rumble of light.

Barbara set the binoculars on the end table. Her husband put a hand on her shoulder.

“Oh, Adam. Do we tell her?”

 


	10. In Which Lydia Cries and Claire Dances With the Devil.

“Deetz! The Pike’s Blend’s expired! Don’t you hear the beeping?”

The timer on the coffee machine was shrill and insistent, but until Karl had yelled, Lydia hadn’t heard it.

Not quite focusing, Lydia heaved the heavy air pump from the drip brewer, and lugged it to the sink. She yawned as she opened the top to pour out the contents. The pot tipped in the wrong direction, and hot coffee spilled on her arm.

“OW!” Lydia dropped the pot into the sink.

“Run cold water over it!” cried Pixie.

Lydia thrust her forearm under running cold water. Tears swelled. Pixie would think the tears were because she was burned. Pixie wouldn’t know that it was because Lydia had barely slept, had tossed and turned, had cried, and had been furious with herself for crying.

Lying in bed, Lydia remembered where she’d smelled the scent on Beetlejuice. It was Claire Brewster’s perfume. He was positively coated with it. And with the smell of cigarettes. Claire didn’t smoke, but her Entourage did. Lydia had seen two of them smoking in that car, the red sedan, as it sped past her, driven by a man who could only have been…

“What the hell’s wrong with you?” snapped Karl, looming over her. “What are you crying about? You’re not even scalded. Buck up, young lady!”

“Oh… _**screw YOU**_ _!_ ” Lydia roared.

Karl, Pixie, and the coffee shop customers jumped.

Lydia slapped off the faucet and rounded on Karl. He backed away as she yelled, “You’re an arrogant, selfish, uncaring **asshole**! You think you’re sexy, when you’re the most unattractive man I’ve ever known, inside and out! And that's saying something!  On top of that, you’re _stupid!_ I QUIT!”

Her face red and glistening with tears, Lydia ran to the back room, retrieved her backpack and jacket, and fled out the door.

Sitting in her car, she took several deep breaths. _He would never be with Claire Brewster. He loathes her. It wasn’t him._ She blew her nose on her apron, and scowled at herself in the rear view mirror.

“So what if he was with them? He has the right. I don’t own him. It’s not like he loves…”

That was too much, too tender. It was something she’d be thinking about all that week, something that Barbara had hinted around, delicately, without actually saying.

_He’s never said he loves me. He’s never said he wants to be monogamous. He’s a_ _**ghost** _ _, he’s not human anymore, he has different rules. Even when he was alive, he wasn’t the kind of man to love or be satisfied with one woman….I just assumed…  But Barbara said you can never assume what another person feels. I assumed what Mom felt, before she dumped Dad and me, and I was so wrong---_

Lydia drew in a shuddering breath, and tasted salt. “And it’s not like I love _him_ , either! I don’t want to feel like this. I’m _not going to feel like this_.”

She tore off down Main Street, out of the village, headed for the hills, to drive in their majestic beauty until her head stopped pounding and her tears dried.

Just inside the very edge of the village limits, she saw the Brewster’s McMansion monstrosity. It was set back from the road, with a sprawling lawn and a curved drive with a asphalt lot for parking.

In spite of herself, Lydia slowed as she approached.

There was one car in the drive, parked by the double doors, which were propped open. It was a luxury sedan, cherry red. The trunk was open.

With no traffic behind her, Lydia gently pulled to the road’s shoulder, and stopped.

After a few minutes, a pale man came out of the house, in a Hawaiian-like shirt and striped pants. He went to the trunk, hefted out a case of bottles full of golden liquid, and carried it into the Brewster’s home.

Lydia hit the accelerator so hard gravel flew.

“So while I’ve been working my miserable job,” Lydia told herself, her face hot and her tears hotter, “he’s been partying with… I’ve been lonely, and wishing he’d make love to me, while he’s been…” She blinked rapidly, tears filling her vision. She gritted her teeth. “Okay. Okay. It’s none of my business.” She swung around the curve, and chose the fork in the road that would take her the furthest from Peaceful Pines.

“It’s not like we’re a _couple_. I don’t love him, he doesn’t love me! We’re just friends! Best friends, with benefits! GOD, I hate that term!”

Lydia slowed down as she tried to calm herself. “Look at the pretty trees. Pretty trees. Gorgeous view of that damn village down there, and that damn cemetery, with that damn _ghost_ … Okay. Delia warned me. Men get tired. He may be dead, but he’s still a _man_. And his threshold for boredom is lower than normal people’s. Because he isn’t! Normal! Why did I think he’d have normal feelings for me when _he isn’t normal?_ I’m so stupid! I was stupid with Chad, _and I was even_ _stupider with him!_ ”

Worn to a frazzle, Lydia couldn’t hold it back with rationalizing any longer. She pulled over to the Scenic Overlook, got out of the car, covered her face with her hands, and cried harder than she ever remembered crying before.

…………………………………………………………………………………………

“Jeezus,” muttered Beetlejuice, slowly looking around the open space of the Brewster’s living room. Everything was white, chrome, and glass. A huge white shag area rug covered floor like snow. “I’ve been in mausoleums that’re cozier.”

“So, like, what’d you get?”

Claire came down the stairs with The Entourage. Beetlejuice was beginning to think that they were vampires, feasting off Claire. _Come t’think of it, they are. Wonder how they’ll cope after tonight?_

“Jack Daniels, vodka, beer, an’ mixers.” _If you keep this up, kid, you’ll be in the Neitherworld younger than I was. Not my problem._ “The pizzas will be here at eight.”

The owner of the sole pizza place in town had told Beetlejuice that the storm had brought in a lot of business, what with travelers and locals trapped in town. The liquor store lady had seen a huge bump in sales as well. “That freak storm’s the best thing for the local economy in three years,” she’d told him.

_Welp, my personal economy is bust._ The pizza order had taken the last of the real cash. Just as well; after tonight, he didn’t need any. He wouldn’t be buying Lydia a Valentine present; what would happen tomorrow was gonna be sweeter than any chocolate. Revenge always was.

The Entourage squealed as they stocked a long table in the Brewster’s living room with liquor. Claire supervised with satisfaction.

The ghost slipped next to her, holding the small, open box of chocolates, offering her one.

“Gawd. What _is_ it with you and chocolates?” sniffed Claire.

“S’matter? You don’t like ‘em?”

“Yah, but…. Why d’you keep _pushing_ them on me?” Claire huffed and walked away.

_Crap. Not good._ Beetlejuice set his jaw. _This is gonna be a long goddamn night. An’ I’ve only got till midnight._

…………………………………………………………………………………………

It was dark when Lydia got home. Her parents had returned late the previous night.

“Sweetheart?” Charles’ knock on her door was always cautious. “Are you all right?”

“Father, _please_.” Lydia lifted her wet face from her pillow. “I just want to be alone, okay?”

“You looked so upset, pumpkin.”

_I am upset!_ “It’s been a really, really hard day, and I’m really tired.”

“Lydia!” Delia’s voice was shrill even when she was trying to be compassionate. “Did something happen at work, dear? Your manager called, and said you have to bring in your key and apron tomorrow.”

_Oh, god. I never wanted to see that jerk or that place ever again._ “I’ll explain tomorrow. Just please, _please_ , leave me alone right now!”

Lydia heard their steps descending the stairs. She pressed her face into her pillow and cried.

……………………………………………………………………………………….

Every opportunistic brat in the village had shown up.

Beetlejuice stood in the living room, one hand stuffed in a pocket, one holding a can of Cherry Coke, watching the people who had once been Claire’s suck-ups at Miss Shannon’s now sucking up the pizza and booze. Claire delighted in their sycophancy, while, at the same time, she and The Entourage laughed at the losers who were still stuck in Peaceful Pines.

The music was loud. Beetlejuice didn’t worry about the neighbors being disturbed; the house was bordered by Peaceful Pines Country Club’s golf course on one side (ridiculously pretentious for a village its size), and woods on the other.

He glanced at the clock. Nine ten. He had less than three hours.

……………………………………………………………………………………….

“Lydia.” Charles’ voice at her door was nervous and shy. “We’ve got dinner. If you want any. Any time, pumpkin.”

His daughter didn’t reply. She’d cried herself to sleep.

………………………………………………………………………………………………..

The par-tay was in high gear. Half the kids were trashed, and the other half were barreling in that direction.

“I can’t figure you out.” Claire moved to the music in jerky hip-twists. Beetlejuice thought of a skeleton dancing. At least a skeleton was _supposed_ to look emaciated.

“Y’can’t, huh, Pinky?” _She’s had more than a few._ The clock said eleven twenty-five p.m. His con artist instincts jabbed him with a warning. _How do I play this? I’m not gonna get a second chance._

Claire came very close, a glaze forming on her large, blue eyes. “You haven’t made a pass at me. Like, not even _once_.”

_Hm._ _This could go either of two ways. Wait t’see where she’s taking it._

“You don’t seem gay,” she tested.

“Maybe ‘cause I’m not.”

"Or bi."

"I'm a flamin' hetero, Pinky."

“Like, fooled _me_.  I thought older guys like you were just _hot_ for college girls.”

“Yer not in college.”

“Ha ha. Like, I don’t _need_ to be.”

“Yeah.” Beetlejuice sipped his Cherry Coke while watching Claire’s awkward moves, which she apparently believed to be sexy. “Y’know, kid, modeling’s a fickle biz. What’re ya gonna do when yer career ends?”

“It won’t.” Claire danced away, refilled her vodka and Sprite, and turned to look at him. “If Demi Moore can last so long, _I_ can.”

“If I remember right, this Demi Moore also acts.”

“So I’ll learn how t’act. Can’t be hard.”

Beetlejuice recalled the many godawful roles Claire had pushed her way into at Miss Shannon’s. For her, learning to act wouldn’t be hard at all. It’d be impossible.

”Besides,” said Claire, “I can afford _maintenance_. And airbrushing. I’m good till I’m at least thirty-two.”

“Whoa. Thirty-two. What’s that, fourteen years from now?” _With your lifestyle, kid, you’ll be stuck haunting some lingerie boutique before you ever reach that age._ “So what about _after_?”

“ACTually,” said Claire, a twinkle in her eye, “this Princess is on the hunt for a Prince to support her in the lifestyle to which she has become, like, accustomed.”

“That right? Rude Awakening Alert: Happily Ever After’s a myth.”

“But alimony isn’t. That’s the only reason Moms and Daddy-kins are still together. It’s cheaper to keep her, than cough up money every month.”

“Wow.” Beetlejuice was completely disgusted, which was saying a lot. “Y’ve got it all figured out, haven’t ya?”

“Yup,” said Claire, dancing closer to him. “Everything ‘cept _you_.”

The ghost lifted the open box of chocolates between them.

Claire raised an eyebrow. “You like seeing me eat these things, doncha?”

_OK, she’s takin’ it in that direction. Flow with it._ “Sure, Pinky.”

“Weirdo.” With newly manicured nails, Claire plucked one of the chocolates. She stuck out her tongue, placed the chocolate on it, waggled it at Beetlejuice, and then pulled it into her mouth. She chewed sarcastically, at first. Slowly, her face turned a deeper shade of pink. Her eyes took on a sharp glimmer. She closed them, and moved her tongue around in her mouth. Her breathing increased.

_It’s takin’ hold_ , thought Beetlejuice.

“What…” Claire gasped a little. “What’s, like, _in_ these?”

“ _Magic_ ,” said the ghost.

“What’s ‘Magic?’” The young woman seemed disorientated. “New kind of drug?”

“An old kind, Pinky. Th’ oldest in th’ universe.” Beetlejuice took her hand and slowly backed out of the living room. “How’s about we get some privacy?”

Claire snickered as she was led. “Gawd, I’ve _totally_ got it. Look, dude, I, like, _know_ about _fetishes_. They’ve got every kind of _club_ in New York you can totally think of. You get off on chocolate, _don’t_ you?”

“Do I?” Beetlejuice carefully pushed her into the nearest unoccupied room he found. It was a den, obviously rarely used these days. The furniture was covered with white sheets, and the curtains were drawn. He clicked his fingers. A lamp switched on.

Claire laughed. “If you think you’re gonna touch me, you are so, like, excruciatingly _wrong_.”

“Maybe.” As if revealing a treasure, Beetlejuice slowly pulled out a transformed Monopoly game hundred dollar bill. In the soft yellow light, to a young woman who was drunk, it was impossible to tell it from the real thing.

“I’m not for sale, Weirdo!” Claire balked. She moved toward the door. Beetlejuice firmly grabbed her upper arm.

“That’s all ya _are,_ Princess. For sale. C’mon; we understand each other. We’re both _hustlers_.” Beetlejuice’s voice became throaty and dangerous. “All ya gotta do, for this little ol’ bill, is eat th' chocolates. That’s it.”

Claire looked him up and down. What was wrong with this freak? There was no activity in his pants. That annoyed her. Typically, all she had to do was stand and breathe, and men whimpered with lust.  “And what’re _you_ gonna do? If you think you’re gonna do any sick stuff while watching me eat—“

“Just,” he said, “ _eat them._ ”

Claire eyed the box. “One. One bill, one chocolate.” She grabbed the hundred and a single chocolate. She licked it suggestively. He just stood there, leaning back against the door. Smug bastard. She chewed with her mouth open, giving him an eyeful. Still no rise in his crotch. Not even a twitch. Bastard!  Masticating with a vengeance, Claire's eyelids closed, slightly flickering as if something was entering her nervous system. When she opened them, she trembled.

“Does that get you all hot?” Claire demanded, when it was she herself who looked as if she had a fever.

The clock on the wall read eleven forty-eight. Beetlejuice whipped out another bill.

“What’re you getting out of this?” snarled Claire.

“That’s my business. C’mon. Th' last one.”

Beetlejuice held out two hundred dollar bills.

The young woman hesitated. What would happen, when she finished? Would he do something obscene? He was obscene enough to just _look_ at. Still, the “magic” was _so_ _good_. She’d have to find out where to get more of these, later.

“Ya know ya want it.” _Don’t push it, ‘Juice. Ya push it, she’ll bolt._

“You’re twisted,” spat Claire.

“You have no idea.”

Claire grabbed the final chocolate. She kept it in her hand. “You really want me to eat the last one, don’t you? Huh? Like, you can’t get your rocks off till I eat the last one, is _that_ it? Then what’re you going to do? Whip it out and jerk off?”

Eleven fifty-one. Beetlejuice said, as calmly as he could, “All ya need t' do, kid, is finish that, an’ you’re a hundred dollars richer.”

“Maybe I don’t want to be a hundred dollars richer.” Claire eyed him for a reaction. His nostrils flared ever so slightly. Claire stuck her own nose in the air, reached past him, grabbed the doorknob, and yanked, shoving him aside. She called as she hurried past him, “You want me to eat it, huh? Like, _do you?_ ”

Internally muttering a plethora of obscenities, Beetlejuice followed Claire to the living room. _If that melts in her hand, it’s over._

The young woman stood in the middle of the room, waving her arms to get the attention of the crowd high on alcohol and other, illegal, substances. “Hey! Y’guys! Mr. _Handy Man_ wants me to eat this chocolate!” She held it between her forefinger and thumb above her head, so they could see it. “He wants it in the _worst_ way.”

The crowd murmured with contemptuous amusement, eager to watch this new entertainment.

Behind his smile, Beetlejuice’s teeth were clenched. The clock on the wall read eleven fifty-five.

“Y’know what _I_ think he should do to get me to, like, eat it?” Claire slowly spun around in place like a teasing little girl, and then stopped, facing the ghost. “I think Mr. Handy Man should _beg_.”

Scales formed on the back of the ghost’s hands. He said, in a hoarse voice, “Now, c’mon, Princess…”

“Beg,” said the crowd. “Beg. Beg!”

Claire held the chocolate out at Beetlejuice, mockingly. “How bad do you want me t’have it, Lover Boy?”

Eleven fifty-seven.

“Beg!” chanted the crowd.

Beetlejuice swallowed. “Please, Pinky.”

“Awww. That’s, like, asking, not _begging_. Say my _name_. And,” Claire added the last as it maliciously came to mind, “get on your knees.”

The crowd laughed loudly. “Knees! Knees!” they cried.

Beetlejuice did not have much in the way of will power, simply because he had no reason to control himself. What will power he had was stretched very thin the past few weeks by restraining himself from disturbing Lydia during the difficult time she was having. It now quivered at the breaking point.

“Knees! Beg!” demanded the crowd, surrounding him in a large circle. Claire laughed, holding the chocolate out at the ghost as she walked around him.

Eleven fifty-nine.

_For Lydia. I’m doin’ this for Lydia._ _**And** _ _for_ _**me** _ _._

Slowly, Beetlejuice kneeled in the middle of the circle, in the middle of the living room, in the home Claire Brewster grew up in. Very slowly, he said, “Please. Eat that chocolate. I’m beggin’.” A puff of red smoke blew from his nostrils. “ _Claire_.”

The crowd guffawed.

Claire stopped in place. She put a hand on her hip and tilted her head to the side, examining the ghost with a condescending gaze. She pursed her full lips.

“What was that? Speak up!”

Beetlejuice ground his teeth, which were now pointed. “I’m _beggin_ ’, Claire.”

The Entourage yelled, “Woo hoo, Claire!”

“Weeell……” Claire looked at the chocolate slowly, carefully, as if searching for some special quality on its surface. She sighed and shrugged. With a sudden movement, she threw the chocolate in Beetlejuice’s face. It hit his high forehead and bounced to the carpet.

He grabbed it and stared at it, then Claire, incredulous.

“Sorry, _loser!_ ” Claire brayed viciously. “You’re old, and fat, and ugly, and _disgusting!_ Get out of my house!”

In unison, all the males in the room stepped forward, forming a threatening rank. “Get out, loser dude,” snarled Brian.

The clock on the wall began to chime for midnight. One. Two…

“Try to kiss me _now!_ ” Claire challenged.

Beetlejuice looked at the chocolate in his palm. He grinned, wide and malevolently.

The eighth chime.

“Ya really should watch what ya say, Princess. Well. Since you _invited_ me—“

Beetlejuice stuck out his green, pointed, striped tongue. As one, the crowd made a sound of puzzlement and revulsion. His tongue’s tip wrapped itself around the chocolate.

With the speed of a rattlesnake striking, Beetlejuice leapt forward, grabbed Claire, and, as she opened her mouth to scream, sealed his mouth over hers with his tongue in it.

Claire’s eyes bulged. For a second they started to close and she began to melt in his grip, as if _she_ were chocolate. In the next second, she felt all eyes staring at her. Her shout was smothered by Beetlejuice’s kiss, and she struggled in his arms.

Before the crowd came out of its shock, Beetlejuice shoved Claire away. They both staggered backwards, coughing. The ghost ran to the table covered with liquor bottles, grabbed a Jack Daniels, threw his head back and guzzled. He gargled the whiskey around his mouth, then spewed it out. He did it again.

Claire gagged. “You shoved it down my—“ She coughed. “You _pervert!_ ”

Beetlejuice wiped his mouth on his sleeve, his glowing eyes watching the young woman. She spat, but she didn’t vomit.

“ _I almost CHOKED on that stupid chocolate!”_ Claire screamed at Beetlejuice.

The last chime struck for Midnight.

The men moved for Beetlejuice.

Outside, lightning tore the sky and blasted a hole in the front yard. The young people jumped.

They stared fearfully at the older man as he threw back his head, shook his fists in the air in gloating triumph, and gave out a maniacal laugh that made their hair stand on end, their blood turn cold, and their skin shiver. Thunder boomed, shaking the window panes.

Claire swayed. She put her hand to her forehead. “I feel…weird.”

“It’s that ol’ drug called _magic_ , Pinky.” In a flash of light, Beetlejuice’s clothes changed into his favorite outfit. He advanced on Claire. Trembling, she backed away, her arms out on either side as she tried to maintain her balance. “An’ yer _full of it_. In more ways than one.”

“Oh m’gawd,” said Claire, hoarsely. “You _drugged me!_ ”

“Ya _wanted_ t' be, Clairey Poo. Hey, how’s this for a hallucination?” The ghost’s face turned lava red, his eyes blasted fire, acid drooled over his fangs, and vipers struck from his graveyard moss hair.

Claire shrieked. The more sober members of the party ran for the door.

“Where ya goin’? The’ party’s just startin’!” The ghost’s red fingertips gestured sharply, and the door locked. No amount of tugging at the knob loosened it. People fled for other rooms, for the windows. With a sweep of the ghost’s hand, the shag rug came to life. It reared up from the floor, batting screaming people off their feet, then rolling them up in itself.

Beetlejuice pointed his forefinger as if it were a gun at the bottles of liquor. They exploded one by one, as hysterical party-goers shielded themselves with their arms and dove behind furniture. A few people fled down a hall as light bulbs burst throughout the living room. Outside, they reached their cars and started them. As if throwing a softball, Beetlejuice tossed a fistful of green light across the room, and it shattered the largest picture window. The ball exploded like a bomb in the driveway, effectively blocking it with a huge bonfire of green and yellow flame. Cars collided into the hedge trying to avoid it.

The music blasted at a deafening volume. Those hiding winced and clamped their hands over their ears.

Beetlejuice grabbed Claire, whose face was beaded with clammy sweat. “Ever danced with th' Devil, Princess?” He tangoed with her in the middle of the chaos. He whispered confidentially, “The Devil doesn’t exist. _I’m_ as close as you’ll ever get.” With red smoke spewing from his nostrils, he added, “Oh, just as a little by th’ by: What’ll happen is my present t’ Lydia Deetz. Lydia Deetz is a thousand times sexier than you could ever be.”

Claire’s scream was epic. She fainted.

Stepping over unconscious Claire, Beetlejuice ran his claws through his hair as people fled across the lawn, crawling desperately over the roadside hedge and running down the street, as others yelled and cried wrapped inside the rolled, growling rug, as the remaining liquor bottles burst, and the foyer chandelier fell and smashed. He looked around with satisfaction.

“My work here is done."  To staring kids, speechless with horror, he said, "Jeez, willya look at th’ clock. I’m up way past my bedtime.” He stretched luxuriously, then paused. Like the crack of a bullwhip he spun around and yelled, “ _Booga booga!”_

“AAAA!” cried the young people, literally weeping in fear for their lives.

“Night’s like this make death worthwhile.” Grinning, the ghost vanished with a blast of lightning and a boom of thunder.

 


	11. In Which a Weighty Consequence Is Revealed.

Sleeping in was pure bliss.

Lydia couldn’t recall the last time she’d woken because she wanted to, not because of the alarm beeping or Delia shouting. It was ecstasy to lie in bed, taking her time to come to full consciousness. She didn’t even look at the clock. She only got up because she had to go to the bathroom.

Her shower was long and luxurious. It was glorious to blow-dry her hair, rather than dashing out into the cold with it wet.

It was only when Lydia caught a glimpse of herself in the mirror while brushing her teeth that she remembered what she’d seen the day before. Lydia rinsed, spat, and wiped her lips and chin with a washcloth.

_I’m not going to think about that. I’m going to enjoy this morning._

“Father? Delia?” Lydia peeked into the kitchen. On the marble counter was a note. _Running errands. See you later. XX_.

Neither of them had tried to wake her. They must have figured out that she was no longer employed. It wasn’t likely they had much in the way of errands, either. They probably thought they’d give her the house to herself this morning, for some peace and quiet.

There were times, like this, when she loved her parents very much.

Lydia made tea. She wondered if she’d ever be able to stand the smell of coffee again. She curled in her father’s big, comfy wingback chair (one of the first things Beetlejuice had ever haunted, in order to scare Father. Feeling a burning sensation around her eyes, Lydia shoved the memory from her mind). She was warm and comfy in her flannel pajamas, Polarfleece robe, and fuzzy slippers. Sipping hot tea and nibbling lemon biscuits, Lydia watched the morning news.

The closest news station was Channel 3, broadcasting from Hartford. Peaceful Pines was so peaceful, Lydia had never seen anything about it on the news. This morning, Peaceful Pines _was_ the news.

“Peaceful Pines doesn’t get a lot of notice. But this week it caught the eye of Weatherman Scott Humphrey,” chirped Eyewitness News Center’s co-anchor April Tonner.

“What’s the weather in Peaceful Pines?” cheeped Eyewitness News Center’s co-anchor John Bethany.

“In a word, _freaky_ , Johnny,” Weatherman Scott perkily replied. “On Tuesday a _freak_ storm hit _just_ this village. In fact, judging from the damage, it struck only within the village limits! “

Lydia set down her cup, watching intently.

“And did it do damage!” he continued. “Straight-line winds, hail the size of ping-pong balls, and rain that sealed the village in ice!”

On camera was a large woman in a mechanic’s jumpsuit and short blond hair. Across the screen were the words _Gloria Rankin, owner Gloria’s Autopia_. “I’ve never seen anything like it in the seventeen years of my business. There were all kinds of destruction, with windows cracked and broken, dents from the hail, flat tires, misalignments, accidents all over, you name it. We almost can’t handle all the business,” she said, looking as if she wanted to cheer “Woo hoo!”, but was restraining herself.

“Gloria’s Autopia isn’t the only business which benefited from the _freak_ storm,” said the Weatherman.

“People were trapped in town, including lots of travelers,” said a large, dark-eyed man with a bad comb-over, labeled _Phil Burton, owner Dew Drop Inn_. “So, y’know, people get restless an’ bored an’ need entertainment. Did I do good business? Damn straight.”

“We’ve been filled to capacity for the entire week,” said Ned Bean, standing with his wife Tilly, the owners of the Bide-A-Wee Motel.

“Record business,” said Nancy Abbe, General Manager for the Mondo Mall. “Folks can’t leave, so they spend, and that’s the way we like it, well, we like the spending, not the not being able to leave, I’m sure they’d _like_ to leave. Eventually. Till then, shop till you drop, folks!”

“But along with the bump in Peaceful Pines’ economy,” said co-anchor Alice, “I hear there’s been a bump in crime as well, John.”

 _Crime?_ thought Lydia.

“Sure was, April. And the crimes were _freaky_ as well!”

A young black man with short hair with a burst fade appeared on the screen with the words _Nate Bellman, clerk Gloria’s Autopia_. “The burglar was a nice guy. Didn’t even point the gun at me. Just locked me in the store room, so I could use the restroom and have stuff to eat and TV to watch until the police came.”

Co-anchor John said, “The burglar used a toy gun. The only items stolen were four Roach Motels, a calendar, and an air freshener.”

 _Roach Motels?_ thought Lydia.

“The second wave of crime,” April tittered, “was when Peaceful Pines police were called to the home of C. W. Brewster, a C.E.O. with Rogers, Fitch and Stiles Armaments. The police arrived to find a party which had gotten out of control.”

“What?” Lydia grabbed the remote and raised the volume.

The news anchor narrated the scene of young people being looked at by paramedics, while lights of police cars, fire trucks, and an ambulance slashed the night. Through a huge broken picture window, one could see the living room had been trashed. A fireman was putting out a flaming couch with an extinguisher.

“Alcohol and drugs were involved. Many of the party-goers were underage, so names are being withheld. One young woman, who also cannot be named, who had already been slightly injured by the freak storm, was reported to have had a dramatic reaction to an unknown substance. She was transferred to the Hartford Hospital for observation.”

Lydia felt a terrible joy at the chaotic scene, and a terrible guilt about her joy. _He brought them liquor. I saw it. But he wouldn’t have brought_ _ **drugs**_ _._ Worse than the terrible joy was the sinister hope that Beetlejuice had _not_ been there for a good time, but in order to wreak havoc. Lydia had always been torn between the desire for revenge against Claire Brewster, and feeling evil and awful for having that desire.

“I wonder what happened to Claire?” Lydia murmured. _And_ , she thought, with a twinge of pain in her chest, _to Beetlejuice._

……………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………

The ghostly cold breeze swept into the Mondo Mall’s main entrance as a customer exited with her packages. It brushed past several visitors, giving them goose bumps, and settled in Mobybucks’ pastry case. A bagel developed black-and-white stripes.

 _Why isn’t she here?_ Beetlejuice shifted his haunting to the time-clock in the back room. No Lydia. There was only Karl, sitting at his work computer, looking at Claire’s poses on Victoria’s Secret’s website. Karl picked his nose, examined what his fingernail had dug out, and wiped it on his pants leg.

 _I got a special Neitherworld purchase with your name on it, Karl. But I’ll deal with_ _ **you**_ _later._ The ghost blew around the corner, and reformed wearing a sharp black suit with thin white pinstripes, black leather shoes, magenta silk shirt with black silk tie, his hair smoothed back, and his eyes concealed behind Ray Bans.

As he approached the counter, Pixie nervously piped, “Can I help you, sir?”

“Maybe, kid. Where’s that sexy black-haired girl that works here?”

“Oh.” Pixie turned around and squeaked like a trapped mouse, “Karl!”

Karl poked his head out, nose first, sniffing. He approached the counter with all the charm of Uriah Heep. “How can I help you?”

“The sexy black-haired girl. Is she workin’ today?” Beetlejuice asked, his angry eyes hidden by his sunglasses.

Karl frowned. “Uh, a sexy black-haired girl has never worked here.”

“Uh, yeah, she has. I’ve seen her.” Beetlejuice resisted the urge to jam the steamer nozzle up Karl’s nostril.

“I think,” Pixie squeaked, “he means you-know-who.”

“Lydia Deetz,” snapped Beetlejuice impatiently.

“What? _Her? Sexy?_ ” The tall, scrawny young man made a farting noise. “Hey, y’wanta see _sexy_ , you shoulda been here before. Claire Brewster was here!”

 _Evidently you haven’t seen her_ _ **today**_ , Beetlejuice snickered to himself. “Pal, not to put too much of a strain on your intellectual capacity, but, _is Lydia workin’ today?”_

“She quit!” Karl said, angrily.

Beetlejuice’s eyes widened. “What? When?”

“Yesterday! In mid shift! Left me in the lurch, too! The hell _I’ll_ ever give her a good recommendation! She wasn’t a team player!”

 _Atta girl, Lyds!_ “That so?” Shrugging, Beetlejuice said, “Too bad. Well, would it be possible for me t’ get a cup of hot water?”

Karl was evidently thrown by the sudden change of topic, but he recovered. “Certainly, sir. Pixie!”

The small girl immediately filled a medium cup with hot water from the coffee maker. Her hand trembled so much as she held it out to Beetlejuice that the surface of the water was quivering.

“Thanks. ‘Preciate it, kid.” _Don’t worry. Your asswipe manager is gonna be replaced_ _ **real soon**_.

The ghost sat down at a table in the far corner. From his breast pocket, he took out the small foil packet labeled _Lilliputian Powder, a product of Creep Industries_. Humming innocently as other coffee shop patrons tried not to look obvious as they stole glances at him from the corners of their eyes, the ghost tore off a corner of the packet and shook its contents into the water. He stirred with a plastic straw. He walked back to the counter.

“Hey, manager guy.” Beetlejuice leaned his right forearm on the counter, holding the cup in his left hand. “C’mere a sec.”

Karl came out of the back room, his upper lip twitching as he tried to disguise his annoyance with the interruption of his Internet oogling. “How can I help you?”

“C’mere, c’mere.” Gesturing with his left hand, Beetlejuice indicated that he wanted Karl to come around the counter. When he did, the ghost looked down at the cup and pointed at the contents with a red-tipped forefinger. “I think there’s somethin’ in yer water.”

Karl bent down, peering at the cup. “I don’t see any—“

With a jerk of his hand, Beetlejuice splashed some water on Karl’s apron. “Oops!”

“Hey! That’s hot!” Karl swiftly pulled off the wet cloth.

Beetlejuice splashed the remaining water directly on the crotch of Karl’s khakis. “Oopsy again. I get these spasms, y’know.”

“HEY! Are you _crazy?!”_ Karl yipped. “You could have burned me! I’m soaked through!”

“Soaked to the skin?” Beetlejuice’s tone was hopeful.

“Yeah! But not burned…”

A strange expression froze Karl’s features. With widening eyes, he looked down at his wet crotch.

The coffee shop patrons leaned over in unison, trying to see what was going on.

Karl sputtered. “Something feels… I gotta…”

The tall young man dashed across the hall and down a corridor.

Beetlejuice lifted his shades and winked at Pixie. “I wouldn’t wait fer him.”

Lowering his sunglasses, Beetlejuice tossed the cup into a trash container. There was a burst of flame and a puff of smoke. He strolled down the corridor to the door Karl had ducked into. It was labeled _Men’s Room._ Nonchalantly, he leaned against the wall beside the door, examining his fingernails, listening, and waiting.

A howl, a shriek, echoed behind the door.

“Must be tiled in there,” said Beetlejuice. “Good acoustics.”

“It’s _shrinking!_ ” Karl screamed. “ _It’s shrinking!”_

“Yup.” Beetlejuice shined his nails on his shirt, sighed happily as Karl’s horrified sobs filled the bathroom, and strolled away. “Who’s th’ _Big Man_ now, Karl?”

Mall visitors flinched in reaction to the strange man’s frighteningly evil laugh. An alarmed security guard ran for the restroom as the man in the expensive suit stepped out to the parking lot. With a flash of light and clap of thunder, he vanished.

…………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………….

“Closed?” said Lydia.

Mobybucks coffee shops had the reputation of never closing, come Hell or high water. Both must have occurred. The gate to her former place of employment was shut, with a sign that said, _Closed Until Further Notice. We Apologize For Any Inconvenience._

It was convenient for Lydia because Karl wasn’t there. She unlocked the gate, dropped her Mobybucks apron and keys on the counter, and shut the gate again with a clank. It locked automatically.

Standing there, Lydia felt light and free. There were one and a half weeks left of her break, and she could do whatever she pleased. She was still extremely tired, still had difficulty focusing, and still wanted to go back to bed, but having the burden of that awful job lifted gave her a spark of energy.

 _I can Call him! We can—_ Lydia canceled the thought. First, she had to discover what had happened. But how?

She bought _The Peaceful Pines Gazette_ from the newsstand. The headline article about the storm, the auto shop robbery, and the wild party at the Brewster’s place didn’t add much detail to what had already been reported on television. The names of the “young people” involved were not given. There was no way of knowing if Claire had been hurt, or had caused hurt.

Lydia walked into the central area of the mall, looking for a place to sit and read the paper. There were several tables with chairs. Three people her age sat at a table, sipping cups from Burger King, and laughing loudly as they looked at their phones. The two girls had small bandages on their foreheads and cheeks. One wore a cap, but the little bit of blonde hair poking out in the back looked as if it had been scorned. The boy had a black eye and an Ace bandage covering his left arm all the way up to the elbow.

Lydia recognized them as three of Claire’s entourage.

The girl with the cap noticed her noticing them, and scowled. “What’re _you_ staring at?”

“What happened?” Lydia dared to approach the table.

The other girl clicked her tongue. “None of your business!”

“It’s all over the news that something happened, but no one will say what,” said Lydia, standing over them. “I assume you were all there.”

They glanced at each other, as if exchanging messages.

“I assume Claire was, too, since it was her house.”

The boy made a sound which was a snort and a laugh. Cap Girl glared at him with warning.

“And a man was there.” Lydia paused, seeing that she’d grabbed their attention. Hazarding a guess, she added, “Mr. Beetleman.”

“How the hell did _you_ know?” said the girl with the bandages on her forehead.

“Brian, Savannah, shut **up** ,” hissed Cap Girl.

“Gawd, Allison, who _cares_ if she knows?” said Brian. “It’s because of that bitch that _this_ ,” he lifted his mummified arm, “happened.”

“And it’s not like _any_ of us are ever gonna see her again after she goes back to L.A.,” said Savannah.

“ _If_ she does,” said Brian.

“You bought drugs or something from that guy?” Allison asked. “That how you know him?”

“What drugs?” Lydia knew Beetlejuice had nothing but contempt and revulsion toward drug use. She couldn’t believe that he’d give drugs to people her age.

“He kept pushing these _chocolates_ on Claire,” said Allison. “Sure, she thought they had, like, _stuff_ in them. Said they gave her a weirdy buzz like she never had before.”

“For, like, _three days_ he kept giving her these things,” said Brian, as if happy to have someone to talk to about it. “One box a day. He was, like, really fanatical about it. Claire asked what kind of stuff was in ‘em, and the guy just called it ‘Magic.’”

The hair on the back of Lydia’s neck rose slightly. _Three. Three is a very powerful number in magic._

“He was _disgusting_.” Now that Brian had broken the seal of confederacy, Savannah was eager to dish. “But he was buying. Had this huge wad of cash.” She held up her fist, demonstrating the wad’s size.

Lydia flashed back to the bulge in Beetlejuice’s pocket, which he’d tried to conceal from her.

The three looked at each other. Simultaneously, they burst out laughing.

“He played his armpit! He farted like a horn! He _ate a roach!”_ Savannah declared.

 _Oh god_ , thought Lydia. _It_ _ **was**_ _him. But where did he get money?_

“Claire kept him around, no matter how disgusting he got, ‘cause he was payin’ for everything! He was driving us in his cool car!” Brian thumped the table with his uninjured hand, hooting. “It was hilarious, watching her with this ugly old dude!”

“So what happened at the _party?_ ” Lydia demanded impatiently.

“He _kissed her!”_ Allison announced.

Lydia swallowed dryly. “He what?”

The three immediately stopped laughing.

“And after he kissed her…” Allison checked the others’ expressions, as if looking for confirmation that they’d back up what she might say. She continued, “The police didn’t believe us.”

“Nobody did,” said Brian. “They said we were high on opioids and booze.”

“But how come we _all_ saw the _same thing?_ ” said Savannah, angrily.

Brian said, with the seriousness of someone who has seen things he never would imagine happening, and who wants to be believed, “He turned into a demon.”

“What?” said Lydia.

“A _devil_.” Alison’s voice dropped to a whisper, as if she were afraid the monster would appear if she spoke too loudly. “I mean, flaming eyes. Acid drool. Claws. Fangs.”

“Scales, like a devil,” Savannah added emphatically.

“The rug came alive,” said Brian. “That’s how I got _this_.” He indicated his arm again. “Threw me over, then wrapped up a bunch of us, like it was gonna goddamn _eat_ us.”

Lydia held her breath, and then asked, “And Claire?”

“ _That_ we got a picture of,” said Brian. “Before they came.”

Lydia bent down to see his phone's screen, narrowing her eyes at the photo.

“Oh. God,” she whispered.

“It’s her, swear t’gawd it’s her,” said Brian.

At most, Claire Brewster must have weighed a hundred and ten pounds. The blonde, blue-eyed woman in the photo, with remnants of torn clothes puddled at her feet, who was trying to hide her private areas with a cloth evidently yanked from the nearby table littered with broken bottles, must have weighed almost three hundred pounds.

“We _saw_ it happen,” said Allison, as Lydia stared at the photo. “She just started _growin’_. Yelled, ‘I feel weird,’ and it happened in, like, ten minutes. And—“

Lydia didn’t hear the rest. She ran.

 


	12. In Which Words Are Said Which Can’t Be Unsaid.

As Lydia dashed into her room, she saw a red envelope on one of her pillows. It was labeled _Babes_. She recognized the scratchy handwriting; he hated writing, and therefore didn’t do it often. She tore the envelope open. Inside was a party invitation with bats and balloons on it, from a Neitherworld shop ( _Hollowmark, When You Don’t Care Enough To Say It Yourself_ ). In that same reluctant handwriting were the words:

This party’s for **you!**

come soon as You can just as your are

We’re waiting for you!

BEEJ

She was through the Door in a second.

…………………………………………………………………………………………….

Red and white balloons were tied to the Roadhouse’s mailbox, the roof, and the doorknob. The front door was unlocked.

“HEY! Thar she is!” she heard The Monster Across the Street bellow happily.

Tin horns blared. Red and white balloons were tied to all the living room’s furniture and were floating on the ceiling. Red foil heart garlands were draped across the doorways to the halls, and pasted on the walls.

Jacques, Ginger, The Monster Across the Street, and Poopsie wore white-with-red-hearts pointed party hats, and were blowing small novelty horns.

A banner across the entrance to the hall to Beetlejuice’s apartment read _Happy Early Valentine’s Day, Lydia!_ Below it stood Beetlejuice. He wore a red velvet suit, a white, ruffled shirt, red velvet bow tie, and white leather shoes. As Lydia entered and stopped, taking in the scene, he held up a large bottle. With a snap of his fingers, the cork popped.

“Yay!” Jacques, The Monster, Ginger, and Poopsie cried.

“Do not worry, mon petite,” said Jacques, “it is the non-alcohol sparkling pear juice.”

“Yer free, babes! You’re _free!_ ” Beetlejuice filled a skull-shaped crystal goblet with fizzy juice. He held it out to her. “No more asshat Karl! No more four a.m. alarm! An’ no more snot-nosed _Claire!_ She’s not in a position to make fun of _you_ anymore!” He cackled proudly. “I’ve got th’ evening all planned! A toast, then reservations at yer favorite Neitherworld Thai restaurant, then—“

“ _How could you?!”_ Lydia yelled.

The room fell silent.

“Well,” said Beetlejuice, after a pause, “we could go Italian, it’s up to you—“

“ _How could you_ _ **do**_ _that to Claire?!”_

“Well,” said Beetlejuice, after another pause, “it wasn’t that easy, lemme tell ya.  Those _Venus of Willendorf Chocolates_ have some strict goddamn instructions--"

“ _That was a_ _horrible, awful, hideous thing to do!”_ Lydia shouted.

Beetlejuice lowered the glass. “Your point being?”

“Oh god!” said Lydia. “Poor Claire!”

“Poor Claire?” Beetlejuice cocked his head, as if his hearing were malfunctioning. “Poor _Claire?_ ”

Poopsie tooted his horn. The Monster snatched it out of his jaws.

“Run that past me again,” said Beetlejuice. “I missed somethin’.”

“Why did you do it?!” cried Lydia.

“ _Why?_ Are you _serious?_ ”

Jacques, Ginger, and The Monster, carrying Poopsie, slowly stepped sideways toward the hallway.

“Did you think _I_ wanted you to do that?” said Lydia.

“Aw, c’mon, babes! Tell me you didn’t love it!”

“I _didn’t!_ I’m horrified that you thought I _would!_ ”

The four friends ducked into the hall.

Beetlejuice stuck the goblet on the coffin table and walked up to Lydia. “You’ve dreamed fer _years_ about havin’ revenge on that spoiled brat! Don’t tell me ya haven’t!”

“Dreaming and doing are two different things!” Lydia cried. “Is it permanent?”

“Naw.”

“When will she go back to her old size?”

“When she exercises and eats right, same as anybody.”

“You mean she’s going to _stay_ that way, until she loses the weight?!”

“Yeah. _So?”_

“Her career will be ruined! I can’t believe you were so cruel!”

“Now wait a minute!” Beetlejuice stuck his forefinger in Lydia’s face. “Ya wanna talk about cruel, what about _her?_ She needed t' be taught a lesson!”

“This isn’t going to teach her anything!”

“Yeah it is! She’ll find out what it’s like to be teased an’ taunted an’ made fun of fer bein’ large, an’ that’ll make her compassionate an’ remorseful—“

“ _No, it won’t!”_ Lydia yelled. “In all the years you and I have known each other, didn’t you _know_ I’ve thought and thought about this?”

The skeleton, spider, Monster, and monster pooch peeked around the hall entrance.

“I’ve _**so**_ wanted to do something nasty to Claire!” Lydia’s face flushed deep pink. “I used to fantasize about it! But whenever you wanted to, you know why I told you not to?”

“Because you’re a good person,” said Beetlejuice. “An’ I’m not.”

“No! Because I knew having magical revenge on her wouldn’t make a difference!” In frustration, Lydia pointed to indicate the Living World, where Claire was, and said, “This won’t teach her compassion toward the people she makes fun of! It’ll only make her hate large-sized people even more!”

“That doesn’t make sense,” the ghost snorted.

“It does, if you know anything about how people _actually_ think! What Claire’s going to learn is that she’s being teased and tormented, not because she, Claire Brewster, is an awful, _awful_ person, but because she’s now _fat!_ She’ll hire a personal trainer and starve herself and lose the weight and have cosmetic surgery to remove her loose skin, and she’ll be just as vicious and prejudiced to large people as she ever was, maybe even more!”

“What?”

“All you’ve done is prove to Claire what she already believes, that being large is horrible! If people are mean to her, she won’t feel sorry for all large people, she’ll feel sorry for _herself!_ She didn’t gain weight on her own; it _happened_ to her! She’ll only see herself as a _victim,_ not a _victimizer!_ ”

“Then how does she learn her lesson?” Beetlejuice demanded.

“Maybe she doesn’t!” Lydia shouted. “Maybe she _never_ does! Some people just _don’t!_ If she gets everything she’s ever wanted, and lives happily ever after, that’s none of my business! I have to live _my_ life, and not care about _hers_. You can’t _make_ people change!”

“Sure you can!” Beetlejuice snapped.

“No, you can’t! I know! I couldn’t change my _mother_!”

Beetlejuice’s eyes narrowed as he looked at the young woman’s, which were glistening. “You’re not talkin’ about Delia.”

“My _real_ mother.” Lydia looked away, blinking. She looked back at the ghost, her glare steady with anger. “My biological mother. The person who said I was her special little girl, and then she ran off with her yoga instructor. Because she was _bored_. She was missing _excitement_ in her life. Dad and me were holding her back from her _potential_. She said she loved me one day, and was moving out forever the next.”

Beetlejuice had never been told any of this. He’d never touched on the topic of her biological mother, and why she wasn’t around, sensing that it was painful.

“I wanted to _make_ her come back,” Lydia continued, her small nostrils flaring in and out. “You believe you can, when you’re a little kid. How could she love me, and just dump me? I _wanted_ to teach her a lesson! I left angry phone messages, and cried, and pleaded. But she thought what she’d done was perfectly fine, and nothing me and Dad said could ever make her believe otherwise. She _still_ believes that. She’s never going to change! And neither will Claire!”

Beetlejuice didn’t know what to say, or think. His mind was spinning in a manner not dissimilar to the way his head could.

Lydia wiped her eyes with her sleeve. Furious with herself for speaking out loud, not only to Beetlejuice, but to Jacques, Ginger, The Monster, and Poopsie, what she’d never wanted to recall, she yelled, “I _liked_ what you did to Claire! I _loved_ it, and that’s sickening!” Trying to throw off her pain, she accused, “You destroy things, you turn things completely into chaos! You didn’t do that to Claire for _me!_ You did it for _you!_ You had your fun with her, and when you got bored, you got mean. You did that just because you _could,_ because you’re _The Ghost with the Most!_ Barbara’s right! You _can_ be a monster! And...,” Lydia didn’t stop it from coming out, “sometimes you make _me_ a monster!”

Beetlejuice felt almost exactly as he had when the officer had sunk the switchblade into his gut. But this time, the sharp, stabbing pain was in his heart.

Beetlejuice said, in a very low voice, “I’ve never made ya _anything_ ya didn’t want to be.” His voice quivering, he added, “Can’t say th’ same about you with _me_.”

“Oo, la, do not say anything,” whispered Jacques.

“What?” said Lydia.

“Yeah, I make chaos. “ Beetlejuice threw his arms wide. “I’m a _poltergeist!_ _That’s what I do!_ Or, that’s whut I _could_ do, till a twelve year old kid started tellin' me I shouldn’t. ‘Cause _she_ didn’t want me doin’ those things anymore.”

“I…didn’t,” said Lydia, hesitantly.

The ghost spoke in her voice, mockingly, “’Beetlejuice, don’t haunt my parents.’ ‘Beetlejuice, don’t haunt Claire, or the school, or _anybody_.’” In his voice, he snarled, “You got any idea whut it’s like, t' have th' power _**I**_ do, an’ have a _kid_ control ya?”

“I’ve never controlled you!”

“Oh, yeah? Any time I was gonna have myself some fun, you’d chant my name, an' _whoosh!_ I’m in th’ Neitherworld. An' I couldn’t come back unless _you_ called.”

Lydia blushed deep red. Beetlejuice’s scowl was horrible.

“Talk about power! You, a kid, played _the most powerful poltergeist around_ like a yo-yo. To th' Neitherworld, from th' Neitherworld! Yankin' my leash! Never wanted to know if I had other things t' do!”

“You never said you did!” said Lydia.

“ _You never asked!_ I was yer pet poltergeist, yer genie in th' lamp, for whenever you were _bored_ an' _lonely_. An’ you were bored an’ lonely a _lot_!” Laughing bitterly, wanting to throw at Lydia the hurt she’d given him, Beetlejuice said, “Yeah, maybe I _liked_ hangin’ out with Claire. At least she paid attention t' me. At least she wanted t' have _fun_. At least she didn’t make me her _pet_.”

The room was dead silent.

Beetlejuice and Lydia stood with red faces, glaring at each other. The four friends cowered in the hall, too shocked to breathe.

“You’re…you’re right.” Lydia swallowed. Tears welled. “So I guess the only way to stop you from being my pet is to set you free.”

“Yeah,” Beetlejuice challenged. He added, with a sour, sarcastic tone, “If that’s what _Barbara_ says you should do.”

Lydia whispered, “You’re free.”

She turned and ran.

“Whut?” Beetlejuice blinked, not comprehending, as the Roadhouse door slammed behind her. He ran after her.

Lydia was at the Door. She turned in the Doorway and yelled at Beetlejuice, “I won’t Call. I won’t bother you ever again, and _you_ won’t bother _me_ ever again! You can find some other girl to pet you!” She took a deep breath and cried, “ _Beetlejuice, Beetlejuice, Beetlejuice!_ ”

Just as Beetlejuice reached it, the Door vanished. He stared at the empty air, disbelieving.

On the Other Side, Lydia watched the Door disappear. She stood for a shocked second, then turned, ran to her bed, and buried her face, sobbing, into her pillow.

 


	13. In Which Barbara Plays The Nurse’s Part.

“But…but..,” Beetlejuice stammered, staring aghast at the empty air where the Door to Lydia’s world had been. He yelled, “Lyds!” He bellowed, desperately, “ _ **Lydia**_ _!_ ”

The Door did not appear.

Beetlejuice ran to the Roadhouse and into his bedroom. The mirror on his dresser was just a mirror. The portal was sealed.

His mind wasn’t functioning. Unconsciously, he reverted to his normal clothes as he rushed out to the living room. “What happened?! Whut th' hell hap--- OOF!”

The ghost fell to the floor, his rump stinging from a kick. Jacques stood over him, his eyes burning.

“Hey!” Beetlejuice stood up, rubbing his buttocks. “What’re ya do—“ Jacques kicked him again, and he fell.

“I am playing foot ball with your behind!” Jacques shouted.

“ _Whut?_ ”

“He means he’s kickin’ yer ass,” roared the Monster, looming ominously over the ghost, his red fur bristling. “An’ I’m next!”

“Then _me!_ ” snapped Ginger. “How could you say those things to that poor girl?!”

“ _She_ said things!” said Beetlejuice, flipping onto his back to protect his ass.

“She is _young!_ ” said Jacques. “She is suffering still from the deprivation of sleep! She was not clearly thinking!”

“Ya _hurt_ her!” snarled the Monster.

“How come nobody ever thinks about _me_ being hurt?!” Beetlejuice yelled. “ _Huh?_ ”

Jacques, Ginger, and the Monster hesitated, as if this were something they indeed had never considered.

Shaking as he got to his feet, Beetlejuice said through clenched teeth, “Maybe what _she_ said hurt _me_.” His deep, dry voice choked as he snarled, “Or maybe _monsters_ like _me_ don’t _**have**_ _feelin's._ ”

Beetlejuice vanished in a blaze of fire.

“Oy,” said Ginger, feeling ashamed.

“Oui,” agreed Jacques.

The Monster blinked. “But, monsters _do_ have feelin’s.”

“Oui,” sighed Jacques. “He was making the point.”

The Monster blinked again. “An’ _he_ ain’t a monster.”

Jacques and Ginger rolled their eyes.

* * *

Beetlejuice couldn’t manifest solidly in the Peaceful Pines cemetery. When not Called, he had freedom throughout the village limits, but only as a misty form of himself. There was a veil between him and the Living World. He could move and possess objects, but he couldn’t touch, or be touched.

He stood in the middle of the cemetery, staring blankly in shock, feeling, for the first time since his death, truly dead.

* * *

Lydia’s head pounded with pain. She couldn’t go to her parents, so she went to the one person she could talk with openly.

Her hand shaking, Lydia pushed open the door to Maitland Hardware. The door’s little brass bell chimed.

Mr. Stander looked up from his clipboard. “Heya, Miss Deetz.”

“Hi.” Lydia’s voice quavered. “Mr. Stanger, may I talk to…can I speak with…”

The elderly gentleman set down the clipboard. “I’ll get Barbara.” He hesitated, and said, confidentially, “I _know_ they’re ghosts. It’s just easier if people in town think I’m an old man who’s imagining things. I think _you_ understand.”

Lydia nodded, blinking to hold back her building tears.

The man went into the back room. In less than a minute, Barbra and Adam came out the door. Bill followed, finishing a sentence with, “---seems pretty upset, poor thing.”

“Lydia?” asked Barbara.

The young woman ran to the ghost, crying.

“What happened?” Barbara held Lydia and turned her toward the door to the staircase. “Let’s go upstairs.”

“I think we better leave this to the women,” Bill advised Adam.

Lydia sat with Barbara on their living room couch, sobbing so hard she couldn’t speak. When she finally slowed down, she gasped, “Oh god, I _love_ him, and I _don’t want to!_ And I said such _horrible_ things, and I didn’t really mean them, _why did I say them_?”

“Lydia, Lydia, slow down,” Barbara whispered, gently. She handed the girl a box of tissues from the coffee table. “Take a breath, and tell me what happened.”

“The first few days were so wonderful,” Lydia cried. “He wanted me, I wanted him, I _missed_ him so much. But then I got that _job_ , and it was _terrible_ from the start. I didn’t want to quit, I didn’t want to be a leech on my parents,” Lydia said things she didn’t realize she felt, “I didn’t wan _t_ to be like one of those spoiled kids from well-off families. I want to experience things, like work! I want to be an independent woman!”

Barbara got up, went to the restroom, and brought Lydia a hot, wet hand cloth. Lydia wiped her red, swollen face.

“I was just so _tired_ all the time, and Karl had me working ten, twelve days in a row, because he didn’t want to hire anyone else, and made _me_ work _harder_ , but I didn’t want to look like a wimp.” Lydia’s throat was raw and sore. “I didn’t have any fun time with Beej. I missed him, I wanted him, but he kept saying I needed to _rest_. He never even tried to touch me! And then that stupid storm happened, then _Chad’s_ parents came, and _Claire_ , and I think I tried to get B.J. to make love to me, but he told me I needed to _sleep!_ He doesn’t _want me anymore!_ He went to _Claire_ , I don’t _blame_ him, I was no fun, Claire’s beautiful, and he just turned mean on her for some reason, maybe he got tired of _her_ , and I called him a _monster_ , and---“ Lydia felt as if she’d run a marathon. She staggered to a stop, weeping.

While listening, Barbara’s expression changed from concern, to confusion, and now to stunned surprise. She journeyed back in her mental timeline. _He was leaving her alone, long before I ever told him to. He told her she needed to sleep. He was restraining himself so much the poor girl thinks he didn’t want her, that he went with Claire instead._

It was quite clear stress had taken a toll on Lydia’s judgment. Barbara realized she didn’t have that excuse.

Lydia, overwhelmed, said, quietly, “He was right; I never considered things from his point of view. I took it for granted all those years that I could Call him from the Neitherworld whenever I liked. I constantly told him _not_ to do things, like I had the right. I was a kid, he was an adult, but I bossed him around like Karl bossed me. I _bullied_ him!”

“Lydia, no,” said Barbara.

Lydia added, her shoulders trembling, “I closed the Door. I pretty much slammed it in his face. Oh god, I want him back. I want to apologize at least. But you were right about him, he did go to another girl, but I can’t blame him—“

“No,” Barbara interrupted, firmly. Pieces which she had believed were unrelated now fitted together to form a nearly complete picture of what had gone on over the past week. A tall ghost, Barbara bent down a little so she could look Lydia squarely in the eyes. “I was wrong.”

Stunned, Lydia listened as Barbara explained what she’d said to Beetlejuice, and what she now concluded, given all she knew and heard, including Bill Stanger’s reports of what villagers had seen concerning “Mr. Beetleman” and Claire Brewster.

“Lydia, he obviously planned it all as a way to have revenge on Claire for tormenting you. Oh, I should have kept out of it,” Barbara finished, remorseful. “He was already looking after you, taking care of you, as best he knew how, before I stuck my oar in and accused him of using you. Even the storm and the Neitherworld chocolates he gave Claire were his way of...,” she hesitated to say it, because saying it was admitting it as truth, “…of showing how much he cares for you. I just…refused to see it that way.”

The young woman was horrified. “I listened to you! I trusted you! When you said you can’t assume another person’s feelings, that I shouldn’t assume he felt about me the way I feel about him, because he never showed me! When he was showing it all the time!” Feeling an agony of betrayal, Lydia, shaky, rose to her feet. “ _He_ took my lack of judgment into consideration! _You_ didn’t!”

“I let my own prejudice against Beetlejuice get in the way. I wanted to protect you!“

“Protect me? I don’t need protection! I’m an adult! At least Beetlejuice sees that! I thought _you_ did, too!”

“Lydia, dear, I’m so sorry, I shouldn’t—“

“I don’t want to hear any more!” Lydia cried, wretchedly, “There isn’t any way to fix this!”

Lydia ran out of the room and down the stairs. As she tripped and staggered to her car, she heard Barbara call her name plaintively. She ignored it. The one person she could talk to about how she felt had helped ruin everything.

Her tires spat gravel as Lydia pulled out of the hardware store’s parking lot. Where could she go, but home? Home, where the Door was gone and the portal sealed? Where she didn’t dare Call for him, because she no longer had the right. She’d _never_ had the _right_. And he would certainly not _want_ to be Called.

Lydia now understood what people meant by the word “heartbroken.” Her chest felt as if a rusty dagger were ripping it in two. It couldn’t be as bad as what B.J. had felt when he was stabbed. But it was horrible enough to make Lydia wish she could collapse and cease all feeling, to be numb and cold and truly dead.

* * *

The Peaceful Pines Cemetery was across the street from Maitland Hardware. From where he stood, a misty man, Beetlejuice clearly saw Lydia drive up, enter the store, and, almost an hour later, leave.

 _She was talkin’ t' Barbara_. Beetlejuice’s breath caught as he stared at the hardware store. _She was tellin’ Barbara how she was right about me all along, how I’m a loser an’ an asshol an’ a monster… An’ what can I say about it? I did all that, th’ storm, an’ stealin’ Lowell’s car,_ _ **and**_ _his money, an’ doin’ that t' Claire. Why would Lydia believe I was doin’ it for her?_

Beetlejuice didn’t have words for what he was feeling. He was a man of instinct. He didn’t know how to say what he felt. He could only show it.

* * *

“Oh, Adam.” Sitting on the living room couch, it was Barbara who was wiping away tears with tissue now. “I couldn’t believe it. Him? Caring about her? Having loving feelings?”

“Men are capable of them.” Adam had wisely kept his own counsel concerning Barbara’s advice to Lydia about relationships. Since Lydia hadn’t come to him, he didn’t believe he should offer unsolicited opinions. He loved and trusted his wife, but he also knew she had a deep and personal enmity toward Beetlejuice, which didn’t make her a good candidate for a subjective point of view about him. While Adam didn’t like Beetlejuice either, he had recognized in the fellow ghost the capacity for attachment, and, being a fellow man, the difficulties some men have in expressing their emotions in the ways women understood. To Adam, fixing the rocking chair or doing the dishes was an act of love. Adam wasn’t surprised that, for Beetlejuice, creating a destructive storm came out of affection.

Just as Adam was thinking about the storm, rain thudded against the windows behind the couch. It came so suddenly that both the ghosts turned around and looked out. The sky was leaden with clouds. The rain cried down in fat drops.

Acting on a theory, Adam took the binoculars which hung from a brass hook by the window and gazed out into the miserable storm. He lowered them, and gave Barbara a look of sadness.

“The cemetery,” said Adam.

Barbara looked.

Seated on a mossy tombstone was the foggy form of Beetlejuice. He was bent over, his face screened by his rain-soaked hair. His shoulders and back where violently jerking as if he were in great pain.

“Barbara,” said Adam, as his wife looked at him with wide, surprised eyes, “that’s a man in love.”

Even as they looked again, the ghost faded and vanished, as if melting away in the rain.

* * *

Gold had little monetary value in the Neitherworld because, unlike Monopoly Game money, it was literally as common as dirt. The newly deceased Christian humans believed they’d actually arrived in Heaven, where the streets were paved with gold. Their joy soon deflated when they learned that gold dust and nuggets were not only in the streets, but in the yards, on the beach, everywhere. After a few weeks, new arrivals to the Neitherworld were as indifferent to gold as they had been about sandstone.

Chaim Heschel would always love gold. It was his clay, his paint, his instrument. Back Before, he had a small, very well respected jewelry shop in Berlin, where the products of his love and art were bought by the wealthy. His heart had ached with sadness when he saw a young couple in love gazing longingly in the shop window, obviously unable to afford his work. He made his prices as low as he could, but still, gold, being gold, they weren't within the means of many people.

His shop windows were smashed and his beautiful creations stolen on November 9, 1938. _Kristallnacht_. He was beaten to death on the floor of his shop, where he had made so many beautiful things, which had made so many people happy.

Chaim had no interest in haunting. Life was tough enough for the living; why torment them? Death was not bad. Though gold was common, it was still beautiful. He set up a little shop in New Yuck City (such puns in this world! It was a joy), and blissfully, with the plentiful gold, was able to make gorgeous, unique jewelry, decorations, statues, anything his artistic soul desired. And he was able to sell them at prices so low, any of the dead could take home something beautiful. Even in Eternity, people and creatures needed beauty, Chaim believed.

Chaim observed that obviously the soaking-wet man with yellow hair, forlornly looking in his storefront window, needed beauty.

“So come in and meet them, why don’t you?” The front door was always open, because here, unlike Berlin in 1938, Chaim had nothing to fear. “They like visitors.”

Beetlejuice hesitated. There couldn’t possibly be anything there he could afford. But he’d passed the shop many times, thinking _Lydia’d like something like that_. He’d never acted on that thought, because Lydia rarely wore jewelry, and never wore gold that he’d ever noticed. And, most important, he was always broke. But he slowly ventured inside.

 _If Misery were a man_ , thought Chaim, _this would be him._ He recognized Beetlejuice, who was notorious in the Neitherworld. But Chaim knew better than most to never judge a person by a reputation. “Look close, if you want. They don’t bite. Not even if you want them to, I couldn’t make them. Me, I have no magic like you, Mr. Beetlejuice. My magic is only to make such little things.”

The ghost couldn’t speak. He could only stand there, admiring the beauty which was impossible for him to give Lydia.

Chaim said, gently, “Let me guess. You are in search for something unique for a person who is very dear to your heart.”

Beetlejuice’s head jerked up to look at the elderly man, stunned. With a voice as cold and mournful as a crypt, he whispered, “Yeah.”

The elderly man with the gray beard held up a forefinger to indicate that Beetlejuice should wait a moment. He went behind a curtain covering a doorway. In a few minutes he returned. With one hand he spread a black velvet cloth on the glass countertop. With the other, he set down a slender, rectangular, black velvet box with a tiny gold latch. His finger crooked, indicating that Beetlejuice should approach.

“I have been saving this for the need of a man in your situation. It was one of the first things I made when I Arrived, even before I opened this shop.”

The goldsmith released the latch and opened the lid.

Lying on blood-red velvet was an oval gold locket, perhaps two inches long. A small, magnificent rainbow-colored opal was set in its face, surrounded by subtle, delicate floral engraving. The locket hung from a thin gold chain.

The opal flashed fire as the goldsmith lifted the necklace from the box and into the sunlight slanting in the storefront window. “It’s a black opal, on a Byzantine chain,” Chaim described. “Opals I never worked with before this. To me, it is meant to speak of the fire of passion. I’m a romantic, what can I say?”

Beetlejuice thought it was the most exquisite thing made by Man that he’d ever seen.

“I…can’t,” was all his raw voice could say. He lifted his right fist and slowly opened it. In it was a single, crumpled Monopoly twenty dollar bill.

“Can’t?” Chaim tsked. “Isn’t that exactly the price for this?” It wasn’t. Chaim didn’t care.

Beetlejuice, whose mind was clouded with an emotional pain he had never felt before, could think clearly enough to scowl at the man as if he were being teased. “Twenty? In Monopoly money? Fer that gorgeous thing?”

“So you’re going to tell me what my prices are?” snapped Chaim. “Like I don’t know? Am I not a professional? Do I not know the worth of what I make? My prices aren’t so high that I live like a Prince, and I don’t want to. I earn enough. Believe me, this is no ghetto, and I know from ghettos. So, would this make the special person happy? Or maybe you want to see something else?”

An experienced scammer, Beetlejuice knew when he was being conned. He wasn’t used to being conned with generosity. He was too weak to wonder why this man was being so kind. He just knew that Lydia deserved that incredibly beautiful locket. He held out the twenty.

“Would you like it inscribed?” Chaim added, quickly, before Beetlejuice could object, “No additional cost.”

Beetlejuice liked the idea. But… “I dunno what,” his sore throat croaked. “I’m…no good with words about…” He trailed off and swallowed painfully.

“May I suggest this?” The goldsmith took a small pad of paper from beside the cash register. With a small pencil, he wrote a few words. He showed them to Beetlejuice.

“Yeah.” Beetlejuice nodded. “Yeah. An’ her name’s Lydia.”

“This I can do right now. Sit by the window. See, a fresh pot of tea is there! Your throat could use it.”

In twenty minutes, Chaim came over to the small, round table where Beetlejuice was, much to both their surprise, sipping tea from a china cup. The artist showed the engraving to the ghost, who nodded emphatically.

“So I’ll wrap it.” As he stood behind the counter, wrapping the black velvet jewelry box, the elderly man said, conversationally, while not looking at Beetlejuice, “But, you know, there is something more rare and precious than gold and opals.”

Confused, Beetlejuice turned his head from the window and looked at the old man.

“Words. Words, they engrave on the heart. Jewelry, trinkets, flowers, sweets, these anyone can give. But to give words meant for one person, one person alone, from one heart, to another, this is the most beautiful thing in any of the universes. And, for human men, it is the most rare.”

Chaim walked over to Beetlejuice and held the package out to him. “I have seen the jewels Napoleon gave Josephine.” He shrugged. “Pretty. But I have read the letters John Adams wrote to Abigail Adams. Of the jewelry and the letters, it was not the gold and diamonds which made me cry from their eternal beauty.” Sensing the ghost’s reluctance, Chaim set the box down on the table. “The words do not matter. What they say does.”

As he took the box, Beetlejuice, with a scratchy whisper, said, “I…dunno how to thank… I’m not used to…” He was afraid to admit what he wasn’t used to, because it would imply that he was a man not deserving of it.

“That’s the problem.” Chaim shrugged again. “You and I, I think we come from the same period on Earth. We know what it is to not be used to, well, kindness, dare I say? But now, we’re dead. In Eternity, what should we give each other, if not kindness?”  


* * *

  
Lydia sat on her bed. Her back was against the headboard. Her room was dark. Thoughts would lift into her consciousness, such as _Maybe he’ll forgive me_ and _Maybe if I explain.._. But, heavy and cold as stone, they sunk into the blackness of her pain.

How was it possible for emotions to physically hurt? To hurt so horribly? Lydia had been in emotional agony before, while watching the moving van disappear down the street with all her mother’s possessions, and her mother, in her car, with the man Lydia didn’t know, whom her mother said she now loved instead of Father, following in the man’s car.

But this pain was worse, because Lydia had caused it. She’d come to understand that she wasn’t to blame for her mother abandoning her. But she had _intended_ to hurt Beetlejuice with her angry words. How could she be forgiven for that?

Lydia was paralyzed by her inability to choose what to do. The one thing she wanted was to not feel. Not feel anything. But sleep was cruel, and refused to come.

The rain sounded the way she felt. That was simultaneously soothing and torturous.

* * *

Beetlejuice couldn’t bring himself to go near the house on the hill, though it was _his_ haunted house. He sat in the red sedan in the cemetery, staring at his rain running down the windshield, with the jewelry box in his lap. Chaim Heschel’s soft, deep voice played over and over in his mind.

Anyone can give a necklace, or chocolates, or flowers. They belonged to anyone who bought them. The necklace wasn’t personal. It was just a symbol. Symbols were powerful, yes, but….

Words were the most powerful symbols. But Beetlejuice had no talent with them. Oh, he could work magic with spoken words, conning, conniving, convincing, with natural charisma. He could control storms, manipulate objects, but the magic of the expression of the heart was beyond his ability.

The ghost looked down. He opened the box. Even in the dark, the opal flickered. There was space in the box.

He remembered something he’d seen in the glove compartment, when he’d searched for the car’s Title. Under the map of Connecticut He found the small, square pad of paper and a pen.

Beetlejuice knew better than to think about what he was doing, because if he did, he’d throw the pad and pen out the window.

* * *

The crying rain didn’t drown the sound of a soft knock on the porch. Barbara and Adam looked at each other across the dinner table.

Bill lived away from the store, so he wouldn’t have made, or heard, the small sound. Adam took the initiative to go downstairs. Standing in the store, with only one light on, Adam peered out the large storefront window.

There, on the bottom step, was the rock which must have been thrown to make the sound the Maitlands had heard. There, having thrown the rock, was the foggy form of Beetlejuice. His hair was slicked down so that his pointed ears stuck out, his sodden clothes were plastered to his body, and his pale skin shone as rain, or perhaps tears, ran down his face. His eyes were sunken and pale.

Because he was on the Other Side, Beetlejuice’s voice was the cold breath of a mausoleum.

“Barbara. Can I…talk t’her?”

Barbara was already coming down the steps. She opened the door and stepped out on the porch.

“Oh, jeez,” she said, seeing the condition of the ghost.

“Look, I know ya don’t want me here,” Beetlejuice said, “but…” He lifted his right hand. In it was the misty shape of a long, rectangular box. “It’s for her. I can’t give it…it’s on this side… Gotta have a ghost on that side take it for me.”

Barbara stared at him.

 _Like she’d ever help me._ “I swear I’ll never bother ya again. Just, take it to her, willya?” Beetlejuice had only pretended to beg Claire. He was sincerely begging Barbara as his voice cracked, “Help me. Please.”

Barbara knew that Beetlejuice couldn’t enter her and Adam’s haunting territory. She liked that the poltergeist couldn’t come into Maitland Hardware. It was a haven away from his chaos and vulgarity.

Beetlejuice couldn’t touch the bottom step, but the ghostly box he held could. If he put it on the ground, and pushed it so it was touching the Maitland’s haunting perimeter, Barbara could take it from the Other Side and bring it in to the Living World. Beetlejuice couldn’t enter with it, unless he was Invited.

There was only one way to Invite that poltergeist in. Anyone could do it, but, for many years, it was only Lydia who did.

“Beetlejuice, Beetlejuice, Beetlejuice,” chanted Barbara.

Beetlejuice’s look of confusion was interrupted as light flashed and thunder rumbled. He manifested in the Living World, in full form, with the box in his hand. He looked at Barbara with shock.

Barbara crossed her arms. “Come in, before your gift gets soaked.”

* * *

At the moment that Lydia was thinking that the rain sounded the way she felt, and that she wanted to melt away, forever, she heard a faint shudder of thunder. It came from the direction of the village. She assumed it was part of the rain storm.

Not long after, Lydia heard a female voice, faint, but close, call her name.

Struggling from her agony, Lydia focused on the voice. She followed it to the bottom drawer of her dresser. She opened the drawer, unwrapped a thick sweater, and heard the voice come from the small mirror which had somehow been wrapped inside it.

Barbara smile was apologetic but eager. She spoke very softly, “Lydia. We have something for you. From him.”

Lydia squinted, as if what the ghost said was taking a very long time to translate in her mind. “I…don’t understand.”

“Please come to the store. You’ll see.”

Lydia didn’t try to comprehend. She dropped the mirror and hurried out the door.

* * *

The rain had lessened to a misty drizzle, but the air was slightly warmer, certainly warmer than a February night should be. Barbara unlocked the store’s front door and led Lydia upstairs.

On their living room table was a small parcel, wrapped in beautiful, shimmering gold paper. _Elegant_ , was the word that sprung to Lydia’s weary, hopeful mind.

Barbara nodded toward the package. “He wants you to open it at home.”

“He? _Beetlejuice?_ But…how did he—“

Barbara shook her head, indicating that no questions would be answered now.

Adam was just taking something from the printer attached to their computer in the corner (which had the sign _On the Internet, Nobody Knows you’re Dead_ taped to it). He folded the paper, inserted it into an envelope, and sealed it. He stood and held the envelope out for Lydia.

“This is from Barbara and me. Don’t open it until after you’ve opened his package.”

“But…I…”

“You’ll understand.”

“You’ve seen him? You’ve talked to him?” Lydia sparked with hope. She entreated, “Please, tell him he doesn’t have to give me anything. I love him. He might not like it, but there’s nothing I can _do_ about it. He doesn’t have to give me a present. I just…I just want _him_.”

The rain stopped as suddenly as it had begun.

Barbara took the package and closed the young woman’s hands around it. “’Go, girl, seek happy nights to happy days.’” She gently guided Lydia downstairs. At the door, she hugged Lydia.

Lydia thought Barbara’s strange words and smile were a mixture of resignation and happiness. _Bittersweet_ , Lydia thought.

Her heart thudding, Lydia rushed to her car.

Watching her drive off, Barbara sighed. Adam stood next to her.

“What’s that line from?” he asked.

“Did you ever read ‘Romeo and Juliet’ in college?” Barbara’s eyes followed the headlights of Lydia’s car heading home. She quoted, “’Hie to your chamber: I’ll find Romeo to comfort you: I wot well where he is.’”

“I hope this isn’t going to end the way that did,” said Adam.

“Well, one of them’s already dead. And the other one, I think she’ll be feeling more alive very soon.”

They heard a sound behind them. Beetlejuice stepped into the room. At Barbara’s instruction, he had been in their kitchen all along, listening.

Though he looked a mess, his yellow eyes were bright again, beaming like a happy cat’s in the dark shop.

Beetlejuice’s smile was hesitant, as if fearing it was premature. He murmured, “She whut?” He looked at Barbara and Adam for confirmation. “She _what?_ ”

“You heard her,” said Barbara, impatiently. “Didn’t believe me, did you?”

With incredulity, he muttered, “But…no one’s ever said that. Not about _me_. _No one_. How can she feel…that way…about _me_?”

“Don’t get me started,” huffed Barbara. “Do you want me to talk her out of it again?”

“No, shit, _no_.”

“Then I suggest you just be patient.”

Beetlejuice ran up the stairs, grabbed Adam’s binoculars, and pointed them towards the large house on the hill. The window on the second floor was dark. In a few minutes, light snapped on behind the curtains. Beetlejuice, who was not a patient man in any circumstance, bit his lip and waited.

* * *

Her parents were asleep. It was after eleven. Lydia laid their note, _Dinner in fridge; sorry we missed you; hope you feel better dear, Love, Dad & Mom _on her dresser.

Lydia sat, cross-legged, on her bed. Holding her breath, she carefully unwrapped the package. The tissue paper was like sheets of gold leaf. She let the delicate sheets float down onto the comforter. She made a little gasp. In her hands was a long, rectangular, beautiful black velvet box.

 _He shouldn’t have got me this_. Lydia’s guilt was supplanted by, _Please let this mean he forgives me._

She clicked open the tiny gold latch with her fingernail. The lid lifted. As it did, white paper fell out. Lydia set down the box and picked up the paper.

They were a few small sheets, folded together. Judging from the tear on one side, they’d been ripped from a pad. On the top, all but obliterated with multiple scratches from a black, ball-point pen, Lydia read the words **From the Office of Tom Lowell, Dean, Sarah Lawrence College**. Perplexed, Lydia unfolded the note paper.

She instantly recognized the handwriting, because she had seen it so infrequently. Biting her lip, she read.


	14. In Which “Only the Good Die Young.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter is a teensy bit T rather than G, just so you know.

His handwriting was scrawled, but Lydia could decipher it.

 _Babes_ (scratched out). _Baby_ (scratched out). _Lydia. I’m not good at_ (something scratched out). _Member when we first met in the cemetery and later your dads chair and he freaked and you came at the chair with the poker from the fireplace and whacked me good? hurt like hell. Then I tried to scare the crap out of you and you got me hit by lightning which also hurt like hell by the way and I thought who IS this kid? And our first day being hot and heavy we did it in that same chair and the couch an it was so goddamn_ (something scratched out) _i’ve been thinking all about that and_ (There was a big, white space. Lydia turned over the page.)

_I love you. ok you probably don’t want that. I’m older you know what I mean and I’m dead but it’s what’s happened. I’ve never been in love before that’s not a line I never lied to women about lovin them. always told them I was a rollin stone and they could have some Juice but not bottle it. And no woman ever loved me or anybody ever loved me ever but I bet that’s no surprise to you. Never missed being in love it’s like expecting a guy who lived all his life in a desert to miss snowstorms, cant miss what you never knew._

(Another page. The writing was smaller, more slanted, as if written faster.) _You are the most beautiful woman and I don’t mean just looks though your the most beautiful in looks too far as I’m concerned your body is a goddamn temple I wanna worship every day. You are too smart and talented for a bastard like me. ya know how hard it is for me to say sorry but for you I’ll say it 100000 times over. I loved that you called me and we were best friends and I want to be your lover man too but if the idea of me touching you makes you want to puke now I understand and no problem I’ll never touch you unless you make the first move so you can trust i’ll never pressure you (_ Lydia flipped the page.)

_but I’ll always want you cant do anything about it because youre so damn hot inside and out and all the way thru. i don’t know what to say I’m no poet and I don’t like the poetry of the dead guys I know who I would’ve asked to write this for me you’ve met Poe depressed whiner jeezus fuck_

_John Adams would spin in his grave_ (scratch) _tomb_ (scratch) _wherever th hell hes buried if he read how crappy this love letter is yah it’s a love letter first one I ever wrote. I want you to have this now before you forget me forever No matter what you decide know that the Ghost With the Most ok just me, BJ, Beej, Beetlejuice loves you and wants you to be happy no matter what. go kick ass at college and be the best photo reporter person there was, Edward r murrow of the camera_

_LOVE, Beetlejuice_

_p.s. I hope you like the necklace if not go ahead and sell it, use the money for college_

_p.p.s. unlike most people yr age you know who Edward r murrow was because your that smart_

Lydia’s chest heaved with sobs. But this time they were for joy. The black fog of her mind blew off. As it did, the words of the second to last line seeped into her consciousness.

 _Necklace?_ Lydia lovingly set the letter on her pillow and looked inside the velvet box.

The necklace took her breath away. Carefully, with her fingernail, Lydia opened the locket.

On the right side was space for a photo, or a lock of hair. On the left, in ornate, elegant script, was inscribed _Lydia, I love you. Beetlejuice_

Lydia covered her mouth to keep a cry of pure emotion from escaping and waking her parents. It was then that she saw the envelope Adam had given her. She read the contents.

Instantly, Lydia knew what she wanted to do. She leapt off the bed and headed for Maitland Hardware.

* * *

“Is everything OK?” Adam asked with concern as he let Lydia inside.

“Yes, _yes._ Thank you so much for the gift, for all you and Barbara have done! Just please, Adam, would you give him this for me?” Lydia handed him a folded piece of paper and the jewelry box. “And can I ask you to do me another favor?”

* * *

Beetlejuice was frantic as Adam came into the living room. The other ghost had been busy downstairs for almost half an hour. Lydia had only just driven away. “What’s th’ matter? She had th’ necklace, did she want t' give it back?” He saw the folded paper in Adam’s hand. “Awww, no, she returned th' letter, she **hates me** —“

“Shut up,” said Adam. “Read this.”

Beetlejuice grabbed the note.

_For the One and Only Ghost With the Most:_

_You are Invited (in all ways) to my room on February 14, at 11 a.m. or any time after which is convenient for you. But please, please, please come._

_I love you,_

_Lydia_

“She wrote it?” He shoved the paper in Barbara’s face with the glee of a small child. “She wrote it! _Right there!_ ”

“Um. And it says eleven a.m.” Barbara sighed. “Guess you’re spending the night. I’ll get a sheet and blanket for the couch.”

“Aw, man, I can’t get t' sleep!” Beetlejuice reread the letter. “I’ll never get t' sleep!”

“Oh, yes, you _will_ ,” Adam threatened.

Barbara set up the couch. “Good night. Hope you don’t snore.”

“Naw, I don’t. Lydia does.”

The ghosts closed the door to their room. Beetlejuice sat on the couch with the binoculars. The light in Lydia’s room was still on, and stayed on for an hour. Beetlejuice didn’t fall asleep until the first warmth of sunlight touched the hills outside Peaceful Pines. He was drooling on the pillow while Barbara and Adam had breakfast and went down to start the day at the hardware store. He was sleeping while Lydia drove by, to and from the Mondo Mall.

* * *

_Is everything right?_ Lydia looked around her bedroom. She double-checked her new clothes. She ran to the bathroom, brushed her teeth again, brushed her hair again, and ran back. It was only ten thirty-five, but he might show up early.

Lydia worried aloud, “Or he might now show up at all. What if he’s changed his mind since he wrote the letter?”

* * *

Beetlejuice wasn’t used to knocking on Lydia’s bedroom door. He’d never had to. He’d always entered through the portal in the mirror, or through the Door. Since it was Barbara, a ghost, who’d Called him, the Door hadn’t appeared.

Beetlejuice hadn’t wanted to zap himself into Lydia’s room. What if she’d changed her mind since last night? That letter he’d written was really shit. She was probably thinking what a loser he was for not being able to write something beautiful.

He possessed the Deetzs’ front door first. There being no one in the foyer, he moved to the living room, then the kitchen. No sign of Charles or Delia. He manifested into his normal form and looked around. Peeking into the garage, he saw that Charles’ car was gone, but Lydia’s was there.

The wall clock chimed eleven.

Swallowing his nervousness, Beetlejuice approached Lydia’s bedroom door. He tapped it with his knuckles, twice.

The door opened. No one was there.

Beetlejuice tentatively poked his head in. Surprised by what he saw, he stepped inside.

Red and white balloons floated on the ceiling. A banner taped to the wall read _Happy Valentine’s Day_ , and under the words was added, with black marker, _Beetlejuice._

The door closed. Startled, the ghost turned around.

Lydia wore a knee-length, fitted, long-sleeved, button-front satin shirt the same deep cherry red as Beetlejuice’s sedan, and matching red satin heels. Her blue-black, just-past-shoulder-length hair was brushed forward. Her naturally red lips were flushed and full.

Beetlejuice swallowed.

“I’m sorry.” Lydia’s voice was soft and shy. She was terrified she wouldn't do this right. “I didn’t mean those things.”

“Yeah.” He couldn’t stop staring. “Me, too.”

Lydia walked past him, around the end of the bed, and to its other side. Beetlejuice’s neck craned watching her. He almost tripped over his own feet, turning around.

She sat down on the bed in a way that made the long shirt lift enough to expose her thighs. Beetlejuice had meant to say something deeply romantic and emotionally stirring. Instead, his priapatic poltergeist nature made him mute with horniness, and the twinge in his crotch was rapidly expanding.

Lydia gave him an intentionally smoky gaze through her thick, black lashes as she slowly drew circles on the comforter with a fingernail. It had red nail polish. Beetlejuice was indifferent about makeup and nail polish; he associated those with trying too hard. Lydia’s natural appearance was gorgeous enough. But for Lydia to put on polish, she was sending a signal. He was receiving, loud and clear.

Lydia looked up at him, with a languid, hot smile. “ _You_ made that storm?”

“Huh?” Beetlejuice tried to wrench his focus from her thighs and the storm brewing in his briefs. He muttered, not sure whether his admission would upset her or not, but deciding to be absolutely honest with her, “Yeah.”

Lydia crooked her finger at him. Like a dog hearing a silent whistle, the ghost obediently came over and stood next to the bed. She reached up and pulled the end of his long, thin black tie. She wrapped and unwrapped it around her fingers.

“I already knew you were powerful,” she said, softly, “but, _wow_ _ **.”**_

“Wow?” he croaked. “Yer not mad that I, uh…?”

With gentle persuasion, Lydia tugged on his tie, lowering his face to hers. To keep from falling forward, he climbed onto the bed. Her breathing increased as she whispered, “ _ **Wow**_. And what you did to Claire’s house. _Double_ wow.”

“Yeah?” Beetlejuice’s breathing kept pace with hers. “Ya liked that, huh?”

“I wish I could have been there. Really.”

“Look on YouTube. One of those brats probably recorded it. Though ya won’t be able t' see _me_.” The ghost carefully said, “But, about Claire…”

Lydia touched the tip of his tie to his lips to stop him from speaking. “If she has a brain she’ll take up a career as a Plus Size model. I don’t care. I’m not interested in what happens to her.” With both hands, she sensuously undid his tie and pulled it, so it slid from his collar like a snake.

Beetlejuice had sworn he wouldn’t touch her until she invited him to. In fact, as a poltergeist, he _couldn’t_ touch her until she spoke permission aloud. The Rules were specific: her written permission didn't count. Barbara had brought him over to This Side; Lydia hadn’t. The ghost was shaking, his body begging Lydia to give him the word. Watching her, and not being able to grab her, was exquisite torture.

Lydia guessed what he was feeling. She smiled mischievously. He gulped, and smiled hungrily back. They both liked this new game.

“I heard what happened to Karl.” Holding him by his suit jacket, Lydia playfully blew in Beetlejuice’s ear.

“Really? Whut?” he said, closing his eyes as his heart pounded.

“Word is, he had an allergic reaction to an ‘unknown substance.’ Just like Claire. Thing is, her reaction made her bigger. His made him _smaller_.”

“Y’don’t say?”

“Yeah. Small, where a guy doesn’t want to be small.” Whispering an inch from his pointed ear, Lydia said, “ _Here_.” Her right hand slid up his thigh and cupped his growing erection, which instantly became full and rock-hard.

He groaned. Her hand caressed the rise in his pants as the tip of her tongue tickled his ear. She said, breathy, as she gave a tender squeeze, “Your guy’s quiet.”

“He’s speechless,” Beetlejuice moaned.

“Thank you,” she whispered, “for the most beautiful thing I’ve ever had in my life.”

“I’m glad,” his claws dug into the comforter, “ya like th’ locket.”

“Not the locket.” Lydia slowly withdrew her hand. “Though that’s the second most beautiful thing I have. No. Your letter.”

“Whut?” the ghost blinked, distracted. “Ya… _like_ it?”

“No. I _love_ it.”

“Oh.” Beetlejuice was honestly stunned. “I just…” He shrugged as he said, “It’s just how I feel, y’know.”

“Exactly.” Lydia sat up. “I have a present for _you_.”

Lydia pulled the necklace from inside her shirt. She held the locket out to him. “I give you, Beetlejuice, permission to touch the locket…and me…and anything you want.”

Puzzled, Beetlejuice opened the locket. He was startled to see a little mirror in the side opposite the inscription.

“Adam put that in it, last night.” Lydia was afraid he might not like this idea, but she continued, hopeful, “When I get back to college, we can see if I can Call you with it. But only if you want me to, and when you want me to. I’ll never Call again without asking you, first.”

Beetlejuice didn’t know what to say as he held the small locket in his palm, as his eyes moistening. “Yeah, yeah, I want ya to…I’ll always want ya to…” He cleared his throat and tried to regain his coolness. “If th’ chain’s too long, I can ask th’ guy who made it t' shorten it.”

“No.” Lydia slipped the locket inside her shirt. She undid the buttons, one by one, as Beetlejuice’s eyes widened. Her shirt opened a few inches, from her neck to her navel. “I think it’s just the right length. What do you think?”

For the first time, Beetlejuice noticed that Lydia wasn’t wearing a bra. The locket was nestled between her breasts.

His shaking hands slid up her stomach and cupped her breasts. Breathing hoarsely, his mouth embraced first one nipple, then another. Lydia gasped, her fingers caressing through his hair as his mouth and tongue worked.

Beetlejuice raised his head and grabbed her. He grinned wickedly. “Yer making a deal with a devil, y’know, baby. A powerful, dangerous devil, who’s terrified an entire village.”

“I know. _I want it_.”

“So, here’s th’ rules.” His pointed tongue tip licked her ear. “We’re gonna be monogamous. No more _Chads_. Got it?”

“Ok. And no more _Claires_.”

“Babes, don’t remind me.” Beetlejuice winced. “I still can’t get th' taste of skank outta my mouth.”

“You did that for me.” Lydia wrapped her arms around his neck. “You shoved your tongue down Claire Brewster’s throat, for _me.”_

“Yeah, an’ if that isn’t love, nothin’ is. Now…” He paused, listened, and asked, “When are yer parents getting’ back?”

“Tomorrow.”

“Huh?”

Lydia grinned. “My Valentine’s Day present to them was a reservation at their favorite restaurant in Hartford, and a luxury suite at the Marriott hotel.”

“What?” Beetlejuice laughed, astonished. “When’d ya do that?”

“I didn’t. Adam and Barbara did, last night. It’s their present, to _us_. So we could have Valentine’s alone.”

Beetlejuice shook his head. Having the life he’d had, and having been dead for as long as he was, he’d never expected people to surprise him anymore.

As if reading his mind, Lydia said, “I know. Who’d have thought?” She pressed herself against him. “Now, do me one small favor. Please?”

“Babes, anything ya want.”

“Just, start the music.” She tilted her head to indicate something on her bedroom table.

“ _Babes!_ A Croxley Traveler Stack-O-Matic Record Player! Where th’ hell’d ya find _that?_ ”

Lydia smiled proudly. “Buried in the attic. Along with some LPs. LP for ‘long-playing.’ I stacked it with four _long-playing_ records.”

Beetlejuice grinned. He flicked his forefinger.

The wand slowly pulled out from under the stack. A single LP flopped onto the turntable. The tone arm moved over, and dropped its needle onto the record. A hiss came from the built-in speakers.

Bill Joel’s young voice sang.

 _You might have heard I run with a dangerous crowd_  
_We ain’t too pretty, we ain’t too proud_  
_We might be laughing a bit too loud_  
_Aw, but that never hurt no one_

Lydia lay back on the pile of four pillows, so she was half-way between lying flat and sitting up. “You haven't opened your present completely.”

With trembling hands the poltergeist unbuttoned the rest of her shirt and threw it open.

The girl parted her legs, wide. Her new red lace panties had a red satin heart and a red satin arrow which pointed to her quite moist slit. On the heart she'd written with a black Sharpie: _Here Lies Beetlejuice_.

Beetlejuice kneeled between her inviting thighs as Lydia joyfully reached down and massaged his aching groin. He unbuttoned his shirt and tore it off. While she looked up at him in such a lustful way the ghost panted, Joel sang.

 _They say there’s a Heaven for those who will wait_  
_Some say it’s better, but I say it ain’t_  
_I’d rather laugh with the sinners than cry with the saints_  
_The sinners are much more fun…………_

Simultaneously with Joel singing, “You know that only the good die young,” were the sounds of his fly being unzipped and Beetlejuice’s _“Oh SHIT yeah!”_

* * *

“ _Adam!”_ Barbara shrieked.

Adam, red-faced, almost jumped from the couch. He pointed accusingly at the mirror in their living room. “She left the little mirror on her bureau! I heard this moaning and gasping and came to see what it was, and…and…” With both hands, Adam made a _Well, LOOK at it_ gesture.

“It’s pointed right at the bed, and you’re _watching_!” Barbara grabbed the blanket Beetlejuice had used that night. She turned to toss it over the mirror. She stopped and stared. “Oh. My. God. He’s… _Wow_.”

“Wow?” said Adam, enviously indignant. “That’s not anything!”

“Oh, please! Honey, you're perfect for me. But…” She leaned closer to the mirror. “Its head is huge. And he’s so damn _thick!_ How does he even _fit?_ And his _balls_ —“

“ _Barbara_!” Adam yelled.

“You wouldn’t think that fat slob would have so much energy! Holy buckets, he's a _machine!_ No wonder she’s crazy about him!”

“Christ, I can see why’s he’s crazy about _her_ ,” Adam muttered. “Who would’ve guessed, under all that Goth, she looked like _that_? She's stunning!”

“ _Adam!”_

“I’m just making an observation! _You_ did!” He whistled, watching. “She’s a lusty young thing. Oh lord, is she loving his.... If I were single —“

His wife whacked him with the pillow Beetlejuice had slept on.

“Well! If _you_ were single, wouldn’t you…with him?”

Barbara paused. She tilted her head, watching. “Oh, yeah. Gross as he is, I think I would.” She shook her head violently. “Oh, this is wrong, this is SO wrong.”

“Cover it up!” cried Adam. “But---“ He held up his hand to stop his wife. “Maybe, just, not, now.”

Barbara sat down with him, staring at the mirror. “Wrong. So wrong.”

“ _Very_ wrong,” said Adam.

They took very deep, panting breaths, and stared. While holding hands.

 

**The End**

 

 


End file.
